Black Frames
by raenbc
Summary: Takes place within four months leading up to "30 Days Without an Accident". When Patrick's group arrives at the prison, he hopes to earn his keep there. Through his late-night conversations with Carl, it's revealed that his life was a rollercoaster long before the outbreak. Lots of characters and a few couples, though I make sure everyone has moments. Warning inside.
1. In the Focus of the Flashlight Beam

**Hey, Walking Dead fans! I've been watching the show for a long time, and I've learned not to get attached to characters. At least I thought I did, until Patrick came along. He's definitely a favorite of mine, but I love so much about the show that I hope to give all the characters in this their moments to shine. **

**Just a WARNING, this will have some dark points, touching on topics I haven't written about before. As I've said with another story of mine, I don't want this to be triggering for anyone. Even my post-apocalyptic fanfics are about finding the bright side.**

**This chapter is dedicated to DistrictsandWizards. If you ship Carl and Patrick (or enjoy their relationship dynamic either way, like I do) then I definitely recommend you check out What Lies Beneath: A drabble series. GREAT stuff! **

**Enjoy!**

**I do not own The Walking Dead **

11/18/13

The newcomers' wrists seemed to make toothpicks look thick by comparison. Measures were taken to remedy the sad sight, and some had to be reminded to pace themselves when eating. The foursome had gotten along fine for awhile, but a sudden shift of luck-or lack of hope, or slip of sanity-changed all that. A chance encounter was saving grace, and in a matter of miles the group found their new place.

The crowd by the fence had the new arrivals more unnerved than the spikes near the gate. It was easy to forget, though, with an army around them and a little of life's lost luxuries ahead. When what felt like a feast was laid out in front of them, it was impossible to mind that they'd be sleeping in cells.

The youngest of the bunch hadn't gotten much of an introduction. He was instructed to catch up on sleep. The boy lied there, not comfortable but acclimated. He tried to comply with his orders, urging drowsiness his way. He didn't seem invited to sleep, no matter how much he let himself relax. He didn't feel rebellious. Just tired of not being tired.

His restless brown eyes flickered open, and found home in black frames the way they had countless times before. The ground was unfamiliar, and walking it served two purposes: to learn the lay of the land and waste energy. No too much energy, as the weapons he had in easy reach reminded him. He knew better than to be without protection. Being in a more comfortable setting didn't change what lurked just outside.

The energy wasting only lasted until he reached Cell Block C. The glow from a flashlight caught his attention, and he realized he'd been relying on his calculated footing to guide him in the dark. He would've offered a polite greeting, but the boy with the flashlight was focused on the comic book in front of him. So, he went to walk on, only managing one more silent step before he was seen. The sensation of being stared at-though a misconception-led to a somewhat icy whisper of "What are you doing?"

Responding with 'walking' seemed harsh, despite the treatment the comic reader had given. The wandering boy was not the type to have a sharp tongue. He met the eyes of the other boy.

A brilliant blue shining through the darkness, still seeking out an answer.

"Taking in the scenery." It was an attempt at a joke, said while squinting from the focus of the flashlight beam.

An eyebrow raise accentuated those blue eyes briefly sparked with amusement. The edge was gone from the other's tone, and he sounded more casual, although he looked confused by his own words. "You like it here?"

For a simple question, it stunned. A memory resurfaced-that caused him to look amused as well-but the thought was pushed to the side by another one. Not many people started conversations with him, much less tried to keep them going. It only felt fit to reciprocate the courtesy. "Yes, everyone's been very welcoming."

That slight spark was replaced by guilt that the stranger was unable to read the signal for. In an effort to fix any possible damage, the cell door was opened. For a second, the newcomer's eyes shifted to the ground. A nervous habit he'd forgotten about. The other seemed to be searching his mind for the formalities of a life left behind. Those mechanics had never been as natural for him. "Good." He found himself saying, hoping other people's kindness outweighed his initial attitude. "I'm Carl." The words didn't flow well, but the elder boy paid no mind.

Instead, he smiled faintly, extending his hand. "I'm Patrick."

Their handshake was more awkward than Carl's conversation, but both boys ignored that. Another question scratched at the back of the younger boy's throat. It felt odd to have so much to say, when minutes ago he was content to just read and annoyed to have his concentration broken by the passerby. He spoke anyway, keeping quiet out of consideration for his sleeping father and sister. "So, where were you before this?"

'Where'. Not 'how'. Asking how in a world worse off than normal was cruel coming from a stranger. Asking where even felt out of bounds.

Again, Patrick seemed sideswiped by what he heard. He needed clarification. "Do you mean where was I before _all_ this?"

Carl hadn't, but the question made him think. "I guess." He put the ball in Patrick's court, allowing him to decide where the conversation would go. He hoped that was clear, and that the other boy didn't feel pressured to open up.

"Where would you like me to start?" Patrick had seen a lot of places in his life, and something in his voice said he was offering the entire story.

With how dark the world had turned, Carl could only hope the beginning was bright.

* * *

The light stayed on for comfort. The boys kept distance between them. As much distance as possible in a relatively small space. They'd moved to Patrick's cell, so they wouldn't have to keep as quiet. The effort seemed to have backfired, as silence settled in. Neither of them were known to chat.

The story Patrick thought he was prepared to recount had been told to him a record amount of times. At this point, repeating it should've just been like playback. Suddenly the tape seemed blank, even though he'd forgotten none of the details. Fear was the only thing to blame his reluctance on. Fear had caused enough loss already. It was time he gave something instead, though he figured the story wouldn't leave nearly as much of an impact on Carl.

"High school sweethearts." It was a rough start, as evident in Carl's lost expression. "My parents; that's what everybody called them. Even though they broke up at graduation. It's hard to say if people were more shocked by that, or how the most popular kid in school 'settled' for such a nerd in the first place." He paused in case Carl had a question, and to reflect on how he was trying to adopt his father's manner of speaking. It felt effective, to speak with the voice that guided him through so much.

"What, was your dad a star athlete?" It was a logical guess in the stereotypical sense, for the most popular student to be a jock. Patrick's head shake in response was paired up with something of a smirk.

"My mom ran track."

Carl gave another guess, despite feeling like he would be wrong again. "And your Dad was on the honor roll?"

Patrick thought about that for a second. "He might've been if his math grades weren't so atrocious. " The rather random addition of that three syllable word just seemed to drive the next point. "He was just really into English. He used to write her sonnets and leave them in her locker. After awhile, she started skipping meets just to be with him. And then she quit altogether. Girls weren't offered sports scholarships back then, so she didn't see the point in staying on the team At first, nobody supported them as a couple. Even _they_ didn't understand why they dug each other so much; they were complete opposites." It had never crossed his mind before, but maybe others' criticism over the odd couple is the reason they didn't stay a couple. "It probably doesn't make any sense, but it happened. Twice. I'm proof."

Patrick had to gather his thoughts again, but he was thinking as he spoke and only paused for a breath. Carl laughed silently-to his own shock-but that went unnoticed by the storyteller. "He went on to study abroad in London. He would've stayed there, too…"

"Why didn't he?" Carl asked, seeing Patrick trail off. The older boy seemed to be debating something, but he kept that to himself.

"Another bad breakup."

"So bad he left the country?" Carl couldn't help but counter. It seemed so cowardly.

"When he was younger, he was good at that. Distancing himself. He would rather be happy alone than feel miserable with someone. Which is respectable, but his approach…" Not so much. "He mistook being safe for being happy most of the time. It's why he broke off his relationship with my mom . Too many people didn't approve. And she let him go on believing that. The way she let him believe it didn't hurt to lose him." Patrick felt he was getting too emotional, though he spoke in a steady tone. He thought he talked too much, but he hadn't gotten to the end of the story. (And his voice hadn't had so much use in months.) He looked up-to see if Carl was even still interested in hearing what he had to say-as guilt sank in. He wondered how long he'd been avoiding eye contact with the other boy, as if that would make him forget his place. The look in Carl's eyes was one of disapproval, and it had Patrick nearly convinced he should just stop talking.

"So, who had the guts to be honest?"

Patrick outright laughed, instinctively biting his tongue for volume control . The question was so blunt. Not something he was used to from someone Carl's age. Not something that needed to change, either.

"She did. But not to him. Not directly, anyway. My mom _buried _herself in work to try to forget him. She traveled anywhere the money she managed to pull together would take her. Soon enough, the only trouble was finding new distractions. She got really successful, especially when she started publishing books. She was channeling this passion he'd put on the shelf." One quick glance caught eyes tempted to roll on account of the pun. "Take a wild guess at what she wrote." It felt strange to say that so smoothly, especially with how sarcastic it sounded. Though that meant it was the first guess of the night that Carl couldn't get wrong, since he'd already been told the answer.

"Sonnets."

Patrick nodded. "My dad told me that she said every single page was fourteen lines of sorrow, even if it didn't look like it. Once he saw her writing, he couldn't help but plaster it all over the walls of his office. "

"And he didn't get fired for that?" The second flat-out question led to another smirk, and a simple shrug.

"I guess track coaches are allowed to decorate their offices however they want." He seemed to relish in the incredulous look he got in response to that revelation, but only for a moment. Ironically, it was then that his voice seemed to break. "Did I leave out the part where he went to school for P.E. after getting back to Colorado?" Carl held back another eye roll. "It helped that no one else wanted the job, but I think the best part was that he was overworked."

"Why would that be a good thing?" The younger boy didn't see how it could be.

"Because any time that happened, he'd go to his favorite bookstore to get a cup of an excuse for coffee-" A second silent laugh slipped out as Patrick went on explaining. "and check to see if Mom had written anything new. On that particular night, she was back in town. She wandered in just to get out of the snow." Patrick briefly bit at his gums, to hold in laughter over the part of the story he hadn't gotten to yet. "She saw him before he saw her. And she thought getting frostbite might be better than dealing with him, but basically sprinted over to his table anyway." Apparently, her thoughts and feelings were not in agreement. "To this day I still have no idea what she tripped over." Carl felt just as baffled at Patrick sounded. How did a former track star manage that? "She chipped her tooth. On the drive over to the dentist, they started talking again. Neither of them expected anything to become of it. He was doing her a favor, and she wanted to clear the air. Tell him everything her sonnets only said in subtlety. They ended up talking every day. They didn't leave anything out. They had a lot more fights, but it was a much healthier relationship the second time around."

Carl was still listening intently, but the pause in Patrick's speech seemed to go on too long. He looked over to see the other looking horror-stricken, but not over anything he saw. Over his poor choice of words. "What?" The younger boy probed with impatience. He wasn't going to pass any judgement-no matter the answer-but how was someone who only just met him supposed to know that?

"She confessed why she really quit the track team." The sentence came out in stammers.

Patrick couldn't get into the specifics of his mother's rare condition, for that was something he never understood.

All he knew was that she let it slow her down. Until she realized she couldn't live like that. Being so afraid. "He thought she wouldn't want to be around his work, but she loved it. As long as she could encourage the kids he coached to keep going. Somedays she ran along with them. He still put her writing up in his office, since it was a lot less obsessive once they were a thing again. He recognized her talent and wanted to show it off. Even though her later work didn't sell as well. Apparently it was too happy." The words seemed to echo. That loyal fanbase she built up turned out to be not so loyal. Her change of mood wasn't contagious. "She didn't care." Neither of them could when they were busy getting back to a life they thought was over. They had eight years to make up for. "They weren't looking for anyone's approval anymore." That was something that seemed essential back in high school, even though they were never concerned with keeping up an image. With that trivial burden off their shoulders, it opened their eyes to just how many people _did _accept their relationship. That was spoken for by the crowd at their wedding, which took place less than a year after they met up again.

Once he got to the day of the ceremony, Patrick's words evaporated into the night air. He knew what the hitch was. He had never been comfortable talking about himself. He thought it odd. (Most people were experts in that area.) Carl saw it as modest, though he didn't say so. What he asked was: "When do you show up in your own story?" He had his head in his hand, and the way his palm was positioned it looked like it could leave a dent in his cheek. It wasn't done out of boredom, but if that would motivate Patrick to shine the spotlight on himself for a moment, then the pose served its purpose.

"A little less than seven months later." The casual tone was countered when his register dropped. "They knew it was risky, but…" He tried to find the most delicate term, while working to fill in the cracks in his voice. "they didn't want to let me go." He struggled to form a smile. "There were so many people in the waiting room you'd think they were there for a concert and not… well, not for me. When it came time to name me, lots of people thought that'd just lead to another major fight. " Carl looked up, as he had been doing every few sentences, to show he was listening and keep Patrick talking. He almost expected to see fog clouding the elder boy's lenses, like a car windshield covered in condensation. "The doctors knew-everybody knew-she didn't have enough energy left in her for that. " Only then did it dawn on Carl where the story was headed. He of all people should not have been so oblivious to that. "It was unanimous. They named me for the day they found each other again. For almost an hour, all they did was lie there and hold me."

"...And then she was gone." Carl said what Patrick couldn't choke out, treading carefully with his word choice as well. When the elder boy nodded, their eyes met again. It was something of a comfort to see-and not have to hear-that he wasn't alone in that. Carl could relate.

Silence surrounded the cell for an agonizing moment. Then, the agony vanished, as Patrick realized what it meant to be able to talk about the memories that haunted him. This secret skeleton was just a story, now that it had been shared.

"Dad told me that if he had to call it anything, he'd call it a trade. One angel for another."

Neither of them could say if they agreed with that. But they didn't have to say anything. That was the end of the story. The beginning that wasn't so bright. For Patrick, it meant that he accomplished his mission. Sleep wouldn't just be a dream that night.

For Carl, it meant when he ran out of comic books, he had somewhere else to turn.

And for the both of them-though they weren't aware-it meant the start of something the world they were thrown into tended to keep out of reach...

**Thanks for reading, PLEASE REVIEW! This is my first time writing something Walking Dead related (which is why it took so long to upload), so any pointers/ideas would be helpful and greatly appreciated. I'm already working on the next chapter (which will be longer. My first chapters are always introductions). Since this is one of five fanfictions I'm working on right now, it's next update will probably be part of an 'update spree'. I will amp up the action soon, and the backstory will be told in different perspectives. (Flashbacks and dreams, for example.) Feel free to let me know if there are any spelling/grammar/phrasing mistakes and ask questions if you have them. I'll update ASAP! =] **


	2. Wonder Fights Fear

**This is a lengthy one, guys. Hope it makes up for the long wait. SO sorry about that! It opens with a flashback, but the rest of the goings-on take place around the prison. **

***Just so you know*, I've been updating my profile a lot so you know what I'm up to with each story. Feel free to check it out, especially if you feel like it's been awhile.**

**This chapter is dedicated to DistrictsandWizards and valix33. Enjoy!**

**I do not own The Walking Dead. Or Legos.**

"_The truth is, his chances don't look very good." Those words weren't met with much of a reaction. The conversation started with condolences and ended up taking a turn for the cruel. An honest opinion. Maybe too honest too soon. _

_The other man shifted in his seat just slightly, fiddling with the clover half that hung around his neck. He cleared his throat quietly. _"_If that were true, we wouldn't have even got to hold him." He rephrased his statement the second after it spilled out of him. "Even if that happened, he'd fight."_

"_He's helpless. He can't fight." Came the argument._

"_He'll grow. He'll be okay."_

"_Whatever this was, it's probably hereditary."_

_Now the haunting thoughts were given multiple voices, but not everyone in the room sided against the newly single father. "Let's not think about that now. We have a funeral to plan." _

_That was the reason Patrick's father had enlisted the help of some of his friends. (Even the ones who were worried he'd end up losing someone else he loved soon, and phrased that worry in all the wrong ways.) He couldn't do all the calculations on his own._

_He felt useless. Again. But he kept fighting, so he could be there for his son. To see him grow. To make sure that he would be okay._

* * *

Patrick watched as a broken shovel handle was pushed through a link in the fence. The jagged edge plunged into a softened skull, and the monster's moans instantly quieted. The witness was less focused on the nature of what needed to be done. His eyes locked on the wedding ring on the weapon-wielder's finger. He wondered how long it had been there. (Going by looks, the woman couldn't be much older than him.) As if marriage was a possibility in this place. The thought brought a smile to his face.

Sure, the mechanics of any sort of ceremony had to be altered. There were no longer any clergymen or judges in this world. At least, not in the traditional sense. That didn't matter. Anything close was sweet-and probably well deserved-by the woman he watched and whoever her partner was. Mid-smile, Patrick reminded himself that he would never have anything close to marriage. He'd known that for years before the outbreak.

Thinking he would only brand himself beyond eccentric if he got caught watching, he went to soak in part of someone else's story. But not until he got to see the woman's other half. The expression the man wore matched one he'd seen on his father's face plenty times. (And not just in pictures, even after his mother was gone.) As she turned away from the fence, the woman's eyes mirrored that expression. Pure love.

And just for a second, Patrick forgot where he was.

Not far off, another pair discussed strategy. He didn't catch what for, but they used playful banter to do so. It was the way they managed to make each other laugh while going about their business-driven by a competitive edge and some inside jokes-that told him they were siblings. Patrick's breath caught in his throat. Turns out, he'd forgotten something else.

As much as he wanted to offer help, they had a handle on things. Even if they had different viewpoints on how to go about them. Plus, his own emotions seemed to be getting in the way of him being of any use. So, he walked on.

Someone walking their way seemed to be momentarily distracted by having to push her curly hair away from her eyes to take any notice of Patrick. He was used to that.

People seemed to have views of him that spanned the spectrum. In some cases, he was invisible. In others, he was the only thing in sight.

He came across the spot where a plate was made up for him the previous night. He'd been given a few non-perishable things that had been collected by the residents. (He couldn't recall what specifically. It wasn't anything he hadn't eaten before.) His main course was a small rabbit. Before the world he knew ended, he'd never even thought to try rabbit. Now that he had, his only reaction was that it wasn't as gamey as he expected.

A small group of children came running by, and it took him a startling second to realize they weren't running from anything but each other. This was a game of tag. Something Patrick never took part in. Something he figured no one would take part in with the threat at their fences. He guessed he was glad they defied that, in their own way.

The kids had a supervisor. A familiar face, one of his rescuers. Carol.

She observed with the same level of skill Patrick possesed. She saw him, and gave a nod in greeting. Not a smile, like the night before. He nodded back, taking no offense to that. Not that a smile would break her focus. But she probably wished she didn't have to supervise tag. Not when there were more important things to be doing. Was there even room for games with what the world had become? The kids sure seemed to think so.

Patrick wasn't ashamed to admit he was a kid at heart. While he kept his childlike wonder, he very seldom acted on it. This is why when someone else saw him, he knew he had a decision to make.

One girl stopped running. She took the braided section of her blonde hair and tucked it behind her ear to get a better look at him. Although he wasn't trying to to look threatening-and would've rather just gone by undetected like he had with the others-this made him stiffen. He could hear the girl's question before she voiced it. "Wanna play?"

Only one decision seemed sane. He had to politely decline.

"No, thank you." No offense was taken, but the girl got back to the game reluctantly. If she hadn't, it would've been over. He saw that the others had also stopped running, which meant she was 'it'. The children's happy laughter sounded mocking as he walked on.

Another few swift steps, another hero spotted. Crossbow in one hand and the other free, since there was no immediate threat to call the weapon to use. Patrick's wandering eyes landed on the arrows for a quick second. It was evident that some had been crafted by Daryl himself. Seeing this, Patrick was suddenly hyper-aware of the orange band around his wrist. He didn't dare look down, not having enough nerve built up to look at himself yet. Instead, he wallowed in a memory that made his head hurt. But only for a second.

He found it odd that he had scoped out the ones who were running things. Maybe it was just because the people who first decided to make the prison their home did most of the work. Filling basic needs. Survival being the top priority. He subconsciously sought them out because he wanted to lend a hand.

He knew they were so much more than their material defenses. Equally eye-catching as well as cringeworthy. A Colt Python and katana respectively. The fourth member of the small crowd carried no weapon, and Patrick couldn't help getting the feeling that was a tipoff to a rift. Playful banter was one thing. When the people who ran things disagreed on how to do that, what did that mean for everyone? If Patrick had stuck around to think that over, he would've blown up his spot.

The whole point of making his rounds early that morning was so that Patrick would find a place where he fit in. He searched in vain, more content to people watch rather than muster the courage to put himself out there. So, his search came up dry.

After that he walked aimlessly, not in search of anything. On the steps sat a girl with a baby in her lap. At a cursory glance, she looked to be his age. Not that he judged her for that. The baby might not even be hers. Maybe this baby was motherless, like him. She had someone to care for her though, and that made him smile again.

Someone bounded down the stairs to meet the others, but he wasn't hushed because the sound hadn't disturbed the baby. He sat beside the girl, leaving a space between them that he wished he could close.

Patrick found himself back in familiar territory. Along his walk, he tried to navigate as best he could. One goal he _had_ accomplished was getting a good feel for the place. As if he'd be staying awhile. He wasn't sure of that, but he was sure he wanted to make an impression.

He hadn't fulfilled that desire in the least bit. Not even with the conversation he had late the night before. The boy he'd spoken with was still asleep. He took note of this as he walked past his cell. Something seen in a blink that meant nothing besides the fact that Carl was tired. And yet, Patrick read things differently.

How often did conversations like that happen? For most people, they were casual. Nothing to fret about. But Patrick had never been good at making friends. And he hadn't. Patrick spoke because he'd been spoken to, and for awhile that had been a rarity. Carl continued talking because of pity. A fluke.

Another familiar face saved him from his doubtful thoughts. For a second she stood square and stared. Then, with a relieved gasp he was sure caught the attention of anyone in earshot, she rushed into his arms. The cross that hung around her neck swaying slightly as she went. "_¡Ay, cariño! Me preguntaba dónde estabas."_

It was clear she was at the height of her emotions, since whenever that happened she slipped into her first language. (Though, he remembered when she was angry it seemed she knew a whole slew of languages besides Spanish.)

Her multi-lingual rants used to make Patrick laugh-out of nervousness-but in that moment he could only wonder who she questioned on his whereabouts. The woman wasn't even a decade older than he was, but he could bet her motherly instincts had her on high-alert. He was glad her search was a success. It wasn't the first time she thought she'd lost him.

Maybe that was why she addressed him as if they hadn't seen each other in a year.

As they pulled back from their hug, he noticed her smile. It was far less comforting than before, since her once-plump cheeks had gone gaunt. He tried to smile back-even just with his mouth-but he could only manage a shrug and the words: "_Me encontraste._" Since he had indeed been found. Their brown eyes met in that moment, and she seemed astonished. "I stopped talking," He explained. "I didn't stop listening."

She sighed inwardly. "You never do, do you?"

"I can't help it." The amount of energy he saved up from going months without speaking had to be put into something else. Sometimes listening was all there was left to do.

"What were you doing out there?" She asked, almost angrily.

He took some time to answer, but his expressive eyes gave off the vibe that he didn't realize he was grounded. "Looking for something to do."

"How about rest?"

'Rest' was part of rather lengthy list of words he hated to hear. And she knew it. She knew why. It was practically impossible for Patrick to rest. For him, that was cause for panic.

"I already did." He dismissed, trying to stand his ground and not give up on the job search. Especially since the first attempt hadn't gone well. She inched closer, and he imagined the strain she felt with every step. He remembered the touch of her constantly-cold hands, which reached out for his shoulders then. The movement made him feel as if he would shiver, even though he was wearing sleeves. Not from cold, but fear. The gesture was meant to be comforting, but it scared him because it showed she thought he needed stabilizing. As if he'd crash to the ground without her there to hold him up. The scariest part about it, he realized, was that she was probably right to think that way.

Patrick's posture was usually on-point, but he felt the need to fix it when she voiced her advice. "I know you don't wanna waste time no one has anymore," Her voice was usually an odd mix of soft and stern. Now, she just seemed sorry. When she shook her head, her dark curls that had lost their bounce barely moved. "but if you take it slow today… it would put my mind at ease." She finished lamely.

His mind would be racing if he was the only one in his group taking a day off. "I can't. Not without you…." To unfamiliar ears it sounded like he randomly brought up cyanide-slurring the word-but he was accounting for the other half of their group. She and the others were the only family he had left. If they went on a run without him, he would be unable to rest until they returned. Since, normally, he tagged along.

"That's not what I'm asking. We'll stay," She assured. Then she smiled again. "and I'll tell anyone heading out to see if they can find any stationery." She let go of his shoulders, hoping her smile would catch like fire. Her words seemed to only unsettle him more.

He crossed his arms. Not in a particularly angry way, as his hands only rested on his elbows. But she knew what the movement meant. He was barring himself off from something she'd said. His eyes scanned the floor briefly before finding their way back to her. "Why should I be rewarded for doing something I'm supposed to do anyway?"

"Writing's a way to keep busy." She reasoned, knowing how much he needed that. "It's not a reward. " Her voice lowered as she finished her thought. "It's a crutch."

He nodded, then asked: "What should I do until then?" He was careful with the way he phrased his next question, so she would know he wasn't mocking her. "Am I allowed outside?"

"Soon." She promised. "You have to meet everyone. You didn't really get that chance last night." She sounded apologetic, since she was the one who cut introductions short.

"I slept well." He informed, so she would know there was no apology necessary. She watched his expression shift into bafflement. "That's strange to say." That was rarely the case. Even before the dead walked the earth.

That didn't matter to her. She was just happy he spoke. "Settle in," She instructed after a pause. (For Patrick's group, settling in was usually a day-long process. One they'd always gone through together.) "decorate your… cell." She said the last word as if it were a curse and she was sitting in the middle of church.

Patrick shrugged that off, if only with the look in his eyes. Given the group's history since this all started, the prison was an upgrade. Plus, there was another reason he wasn't bothered by the conditions. "Alright," He agreed, his reluctance gone. "if it'll ease your mind."

With another glimpse of a grin, the woman turned and started walking away. Until Patrick called out her name. The accent he put on it explained why the guys in her group had affectionately nicknamed her "Beady". (In contrast to her doe eyes.) "Viri!"

She turned her head to look back at him, her concern curbed. Then she saw how worried he was once again. Despite how he tried to hold his tongue, it rebelled. He heard himself ask her: "Do I look as bad as you do?"

"...You look worse," Viri answered honestly. The words left a bitter taste on her tongue, since he could be delicate. She gave that some thought and found herself smiling again. "but you sound good."

* * *

When she entered the prison walls, Viri knew she was no longer in command. She was a guest in a home another group had built up by making do with what they had and finding more. She was fine with the change in status, so long as she could keep her family safe. She saw the two men that had been in this with her since it all began, standing near the fences with Rick and some of the others.

The numbers had shifted in her absence, and a fresh tire trail leaving the prison meant Michonne was once again working toward her mission. Viri hadn't felt comfortable asking for details, but wondered what it was she hoped to find. And why she went alone to find it.

Whatever conversation the group was having reached a lull when they heard her footsteps approach. Their reaction time was slow in comparison to one of her group. (Before then his ears were tuned to the sound of horse's hooves, rather than what the others were discussing.) He heard her long before he saw her, but that was usually how it went. "Did you see him?" He asked hopefully.

She gave a nod, but said "Yes" anyway. He could hear the relief in her voice better than he can see it in her face.

"How is he?" This question was posed by the man's brother. Nearly identical, but their personalities hardly matched. That was evident even in the way they spoke. The elder seemed angry the group was separated, instead of glad that change wasn't permanent.

"Up," Viri said, though she knew that wasn't the answer the men were looking for. "and begging to be out here."

That was dismissed with a scoff. "Patrick doesn't beg."

The younger twin gave his brother a look, though most didn't catch it because his eyes had been darting around in his head all morning. He was trying his best to take in all the novelty. "Maybe you haven't been listening hard enough, Simon."

Half of the conversation going on was silent, between the glares Viri's family exchanged and the preparations the three others made. Checking off a mental list of everything they loaded up the car with. "Listening to _what_? When was the last time he talked to us?"

"Just now." Viri informed, though she knew it would only give the brothers more to bicker over. This was something they'd done since they were kids, and she never condoned it. Only then did it feel welcome, because that was their way of letting off steam. And like herself and Patrick, the two sounded better than they looked. Her eyes still glazed over at the sight of their scarred olive skin.

The revelation made the glares stop. Simon's mouth dropped slightly. Then, he asked: "What did he say?"

"He asked about you."

Skeptical, Simon rephrased that for her. "He asked about Ira."

"And you." She assured. "He wants to us to stay until we all get our strength back."

Simon gave an understanding nod. He planned on sticking around anyway, to help Ira get familiarized. Though there was something in Viri's tone of voice that struck a nerve for his brother. Something he didn't pick up on.

Rather than narrow his eyes in suspicion, Ira pursed his lips. "I bet he didn't ask you to tell us that." At those words, he had the others' attention. Even Rick, Glenn and Maggie, who had finished gathering everything they needed for the run they were about to take. "One thing I've learned since he's been with us: the only thing Patrick wants is for it to _never _be about what he wants."

Simon could see Viri trying to swallow a lump that had formed in her throat. She tried to turn this sad truth around. "He also wants to write again." She looked to Rick in that moment. "He's gonna need supplies for that, if you don't mind."

There was a pause, but he answered: "We'll keep an eye out." Hearing that, Glenn smiled to himself. He knew the way to make the most of these runs was to have a good eye. And to know where to look. His wife's eyes set their focus back on the prison. She knew there were some goodbyes that still needed to be said. Quick as they would be and routine as these trips had become. "I'll go wake him." Rick decided in a spoken thought. Not that there was really any debate on telling his son he was about to leave. He didn't expect a response, but something his group would learn fast was that Simon always had something to say.

"Maybe you should let him sleep. You oughta be happy he can manage that."

As his brother and Viri well knew, the somethings Simon said were usually critical. They were braced for an argument to start, but Rick simply said: "I am."

Ira only spoke once he was inside. "He's considering it." He caught the questioning look his brother sent him in his peripherals. (On someone new, he wouldn't recognize the expression. Especially not looking at them straight on.) Seeing that Simon missed the point, he repeated himself and filled in the blank. "He's considering it. Letting him sleep."

* * *

Bare walls were a blank canvas in the days before the outbreak. Put there not only to hold up houses, but to show off projects. Projects that had a good chunk of time set aside for them. Where Patrick would forget his concern for the world around him and be consumed by creativity.

That curbed concern had never come easily. And now it was impossible. His sensitive ears caught the coos and cries of the baby, and bits and pieces of conversations held by people passing through. They were all preoccupied, and he was just trying to trick himself into thinking he was. Though, in his experience, he could only trick himself into thinking negatively.

Pushing that thought aside, he kneeled on the floor in his cell and clutched at zipper pulls attached to a backpack he'd had for years. (One that made good on a promise to last him awhile, though it had some wear and tear.) Those pulls were now just broken loops, once home to small stuffed toys. None of which were his originally. Which is why he had appreciated them so much. Now that they were gone, all that was left as a reminder was sharp, pointed plastic. He left things that way because it was a line of defense. Not much of one, but he took whatever he could get when it came to that.

He opened the smallest of five compartments to find a meager number of pens and markers. All the pens had run out of ink. He wasn't sure why he kept them. They had no more use, and the memories attached to them had all been written down.

The next compartment contained eyeglass cases. All except one went untouched, because they weren't needed. And that's why he kept them around. It was the same sort of logic behind bringing an umbrella in hopes that it doesn't rain.

Getting tired of the position he was in, he sat down lazily. Without conversation to keep Patrick's his mind off how the floor felt, he was a lot more conscious of it. He could tell that soon enough he'd move to the bed. Once he found something worth unpacking.

Before closing the second compartment, he noticed a bottle of eyeglass cleaner. When he picked it up, he saw that it still had a few drops left. With an eyebrow raise, he opened one of the cases, empty aside from a small swatch of fabric. It had seen its fair share of dust, but he noted that it had also helped to clear away blood. The red tint had set in, turning the powder blue a pale purple in spots. He decided it was too dirty to do any good, and opened the other three cases to see if he had spares. No such luck. He actually chuckled finding out he was ill-prepared. At least for now, that didn't matter as much.

He moved on to the third compartment, which had all his wearable items of clothing. And one item that wasn't.

He looked at the orange t-shirt, which had a pretty sizable square torn away. For a moment his thumbs just kept tapping at the fabric he wanted to keep as intact as possible. If he didn't put it to use, he'd have to bother someone else for something to clean his glasses with. So, he gripped the shirt where it'd been torn before, and used that as a guide for getting the piece he needed. No sharp objects necessary.

When he was done with cleaning his glasses, he opened the fourth compartment. Which held every journal he'd managed to hold onto. All full. It also had a deck of cards that had never left their box. A few were sticking out of the top because they didn't belong there in the first place. The fact that they were laminated was a clue to that.

The last item in the fourth compartment was Patrick's only spare weapon: A Parry blade with a spear point, made from stainless steel. It was better than his other two knives, but he only ever used it once.

He wondered if the blade was still as sharp as it had been, but he didn't want to test it. Maybe it only seemed dull because it had been out of use for so long. It was like that last real swatch he used to use for cleaning his glasses. All it did now was collect dust.

Maybe it was perfectly capable of getting things done. If only it'd be given a job.

He pulled the blade from its sheath and looked it over. It was perfectly clean. It seemed brand new. It forced him to face his reflection.

He could see his glasses were slipping down the bridge of his nose, so he adjusted them. Every bruise and blemish seemed magnified. He couldn't tell the difference between beauty marks and dirt anymore. It didn't take long for him to get tired of looking.

Patrick put the knife away with a thought he didn't realize he voiced to no one: "Should've got it in black."

The fourth compartment looked practically empty in comparison to the others because the rest of its contents had been used up. Food, ammo, medical supplies. All the rest of the essentials. The kinds of things he figured everyone else had their bags stocked with, instead of what mostly just took up space.

The last compartment was stuck shut. The material had gotten caught in the metal teeth. Patrick hadn't gotten a chance to fix it recently because he and has group had been constantly in motion, or at least on guard when they were stopped. Which meant there was no time to look at books or pictures. He used one of his own knives and broke into his own belongings.

He took out the handful of books he had, and placed them in a pile at the foot of his bed. Some were without covers, some had notes scribbled in the margins, and some had yet to be read. There were field journals, manuals, how-to books, novels. Even children's books. Some of which were written in braille. Eleven books in all. He figured that was considered a library these days.

He only had one photo album. It practically fit in the palm of his hand. Every picture in there was wallet-size of smaller, and the other pictures were stuffed into a manila folder that closed with a string. The earliest picture he had was one of his parents sitting on bleachers wearing matching clover half necklaces. There were a handful of pictures of him as a baby, and he thumbed through them until he found ones he recognized. The most recent ones looked oldest. They were polaroids, but the colors were all washed out. It was convenient that some still had adhesive on the back.

Patrick arranged the pictures on the floor in front of him. There were so many to choose from they almost reached the wall opposite his bed. He switched the order up to try and match the images engraved in his memory. Once he had them sorted out, he hung them up. It was a shoddy job because there wasn't enough adhesive to go around and some of the pictures were curling at the corners. It wound up even worse because he refused to use anything he found around the prison to move the project along.

He tried to make things as presentable as possible. Not that anyone would judge him on it, all things considered. He did that for the sake of wasting time.

Taking a few steps back, he reviewed his work. He instantly hated it. Not because it was done poorly. He took the job as seriously as any one he'd ever been assigned.

It didn't look good. Not just because materials he would normally use were in short supply, but because this was an overflow of information on display for anyone who happened to walk by. He'd known that at the start, but seeing the finished product made his stomach feel more empty than it ever had outside the prison walls.

With a swallowed sigh, he reached up and took the pictures down one by one.

It started slow and controlled. He was careful not to tear anything. Soon, he was taking things down by the fistful. He could feel his nails digging into his palms. Through all that, Patrick's eyes stayed dry.

When the walls were blank again, he regained his composure and unbent the pictures. Some were beyond salvaging.

He put all the pictures back and decided the only homey touch he'd add that day besides his little library was a privacy screen. Which meant he would have to make friends, because no one he knew had anything to spare.

* * *

Ira brought a whole new definition to the term 'perimeter check'. He had seen everything around the outdoor portion of the prison five times over, trying to take in every detail. The new faces, the areas people had built on to suit their needs in some way, the potential jobs for everyone in his group. He was mindful of it all. He had to be. He couldn't afford to waste daylight. Not when he could barely see in the dark.

Once he knew his surroundings enough he stayed by the fences. Keeping them clear. He tried not to let the walkers pile up on the other side. That was something that would always need taking care of. That was something he did well at. Slow-moving objects were easiest for him to follow. The barrier the fence created between him and the dead helped the situation even more. Plus, the blade he used was long enough that it kept distance between them. Ira didn't have to be right up against the fence.

He locked his eyes on the creatures, before looking away. Not because he couldn't handle the gruesome image. It was easier for him to set his aim that way since his depth perception was off. Most of the time, he took perfect shots.

He kept a persistent pace, knowing well that his brother and Viri kept their eyes on him. He couldn't see-not with his back turned-but he could feel it.

"How long has he been at that?" She whispered. (A question they'd posed about Patrick numerous times.) Not low enough.

Simon shrugged, not bothering to whisper. "If we count the bodies it'll give us a clue. He knows he's useful. He just forgets sometimes." He was hoping that last part was louder, so Ira would be reminded.

"That sounds familiar." She observed, making Simon laugh. Harshly.

"Yeah… I think I got a job for him." He kicked the sorry-looking box in front of him lightly. It was small, missing flaps and had some holes. It was filled practically to the brim with scraps of metal.

"What's he gonna do with that?" She asked, sounding almost chipper. She knew Patrick had a knack for building things, which meant he could probably come up with a million ideas. If he ever allowed himself to think without doing for that long.

"Ira says they have snares." Simon answered, thinking: _Why wouldn't they_? He saw a skeptical look enter Viri's eye.

"And _you _think he can make more?"

Simon scoffed. "I think it'll keep him busy either way."

Ira sliced through a walker's skull sideways, fully aware that his knife would bump into the other end of the link before it reached the thing's temple. It was already going down, but he pulled back with force in hopes of startling his brother with the sound of metal clashing against metal. It worked.

The motion was so quick he couldn't process it, but Viri took a step forward. "Are we _still _at this?" The younger twin asked, with a sharpness in his tone. He used his knife to point, and it was effective. Though the other two knew he wasn't threatening them.

Simon seethed, his teeth clenched. "This isn't _about_ me not believing in him." He didn't raise his voice, though he felt the urge to do so with the unconvinced look Ira sent him in reply. "From what I've seen, he'll make it work. But even if he doesn't, at least he won't drive himself _crazy_." Once Patrick was done decorating, he needed another way to fill his time. "So don't give me another speech about how _I-of-all-people _should have more sympathy for the visually impaired." Before he could finish his sentence, the other two were laughing.

Though Ira still took this very seriously. (Since Viri was poised to step between them if things got too heated, it was obvious she did, too.) "I never said his eyesight has anything to do with your attitude."

"I'm trying to _help_ him." Simon reasoned. "Doesn't that tell you something?"

"You said what you're doing. Keeping him busy." Ira dismissed.

"That's what we _have _to do."

Viri watched as the brothers turned to her, silently asking for her opinion. After a pause, she said: "He's happy when he's busy." Not just that. He was also at his most confident.

Ira sighed and spoke softly. "He shouldn't be sad when he's not." With that, he turned to get back to work.

His back was turned when his brother asked: "What was the last thing he said to you?"

"_How_?" Ira responded, offering no context. After a breath, he repeated the question Simon posed to him. "What was the last thing he said to _you_?"

Simon seemed to be put right back in that moment. He sounded sad when he said "Maybe you're right."

* * *

"Nobody's usin' these. You can have 'em. I set some stuff aside for you guys."

Patrick looked at the table the blonde girl, Beth, gestured to. Everything was there for his group to take. Including the table.

"Thank you." He told her as he took one large, tan-colored sheet. Since that was all he needed at the moment. It unfolded when he picked it up, and the fabric was noticeably wrinkled and ripped. Missing a piece in the middle.

"Sorry." She said when she saw it.

He shrugged it off, not understanding why she thought he expected anything would be perfect. It never had been.

"It's just a patch job." He told her with something of a smile. "It'll give me something to do." Though that t-shirt was kept around for a reason. Now, that reason would be to help fix the privacy screen.

"You're gonna need a needle and thread." She said, guessing she should've gathered that as well. She knew where he could find some, but before she had a chance to say so, someone found them.

Patrick recognized him, but only as the boy who bounded down the stairs to sit next to Beth earlier in the day.

"Ladies, gente...man." He greeted, the last part coming out awkwardly as if it were two separate words.

"Zach." Beth replied, under a laugh. The baby in her arms cooed. The two teens looked amused and surprised.

Zach just smiled. "See? They know. Maybe they can't say it yet, but they know." He was fascinated by how intuitive babies were. Possibly because he wasn't always as intuitive as he'd like to be. His observation made Patrick smile even more. He was already adjusting, interacting with people who inspired confidence. He introduced himself. Mid-handshake, Zach spotted his bracelet. "That's cool." He said casually.

The response sounded just as casual, but it didn't feel that way. He worried he'd go mute again, but heard himself say "Thank you."

"Do you remember where you got it?" (That was an odd question. It wasn't like Zach could go back and get one for himself.)

"...I made it." Patrick informed. Beth's big blue eyes saw him flinch before he said so, but Zach didn't seem to notice.

"Even cooler." He complimented.

Patrick still smiled appreciatively, but hardly made an effort to keep talking. He had tons of questions running through his head about who they used to be and who this world had turned them into, but he kept them to himself. It seemed hypocritical to do otherwise, thinking back on the quiet rampage in his cell. So he thanked them again, before heading back there.

On the walk back, he noticed some things. Carl's family's cell was empty. He spotted something in there he hadn't been able to see in the dark. (Even when Carl's flashlight was pointed at him.) A crib.

He had gotten an answer without even asking the question. The sight made him stop short, but only for a second. He kept moving to avoid another barrage of thoughts. They only chased after him.

Another sight along his walk was a source of relief. The curly haired woman who hadn't noticed him before was sitting on her bed, sewing. She was skilled at it, too. Not even looking as she did her work. Her eyes focused on the man talking to her. The one who had been discussing strategy with his sister.

"I thought you'd be out there longer today."

"Normally I am," She said, seeing why he'd think that. "but... Ira took over for me."

Patrick's ears perked up at the familiar name. He tried not to listen too hard when the man replied, waiting for a reasonable window to interject. "Good. You deserve a break."

She grinned, and the teenager wondered if she agreed with that. "I just hope he doesn't overwork himself." She said her next sentence with almost no decorum. Not only because she thought none of Patrick's group were around to hear. The bigger reason was that this was true of everyone in their little community at one point. (And not admitting it might be more wrong.) "They all look like a wreck."

"They'll be alright." The man said with a smile. A smile directed at Patrick. She turned her head, almost embarrassed and a little guilty. The boy's feelings reflected hers. The expressions they both wore were apologetic. "Hey, man." (He said this though the two others knew Patrick's name. The teen took it as a title, a sign of respect. Besides, four names were easier to remember than dozens. He hadn't learned theirs yet, on account of being sent to bed early the previous night.) "You need anything?"

Patrick curved his fingers to rest on his thumb. A polite way of pointing the adults hadn't known existed. "An extra needle and thread, please."

The woman could tell he noticed the clear box-once containing tacks-that housed needles and spools. Some were running low, so she handed him a near full spool with the thickest needle she could find stuck through the sticker at the top. She was careful not to push it down too far, or else he might prick himself. "You came to the right place."

This sparked a smile between them and he thanked her, the pause at the end indicating that he wished he knew her name so he could thank her properly. He stuck a Mz before the pause, hoping that would signify that he'd never been comfortable calling adults by their first names.

It had been tough enough for him not to call Viri Ms. Valdez when he first met her. He'd known calling both twins Mr. Berman would get confusing. So they made him stray from that path. He didn't plan on doing much more of that.

Either this woman didn't care about his plans, or she just didn't like being called by her last name. "Karen." She supplied. She enjoyed being playful-especially after feeling like she'd hurt the boy-so she added: "This is Tyreese."

Patrick almost blushed, seeing she was acting sweet and stubborn all at once. He was used to that, too.

"It's nice to meet you both. Thanks again." He held out his hand for them to shake and they both accepted. He was relieved, figuring that sooner or later someone would reject that offer.

"No problem." She assured. "You can keep that if you want. And if you need anything else, feel free to drop by."

He smiled again, despite wondering if she was overcompensating for what he overheard. He didn't dwell on it. There was work to be done. His hope was that there would always be work to be done. He left them to their moment.

When he got back to his cell, Simon was sitting on the top bunk, thumbing through one of the books.

Patrick felt a chill run through him even before the man asked: "Remember when you wouldn't leave your room for days?" He remembered vividly, but avoided the question altogether. He stepped inside his cell silently. He saw Simon's face drop. "What, you only talk for Viri now?" Patrick replied with nothing but a pitiful look. The man hopped off the bed, threw the book back on the pile and said: "We miss you out there." in a much nicer tone than his expression implied. Patrick's mouth stayed still, but his eyes moved to the box propped up alongside the bottom bunk. This prompted Simon to explain: "I got you a present." Patrick still hadn't found words, which made the man more worried than angry. "Ungrateful bastard." He muttered mockingly, hoping to cut the tension.

Patrick's face exploded into a smile. "Alright," Simon decided. "That says enough for me. Get over here."

Patrick did as he was told, and put what he was carrying down next to the books as Simon spoke. "One of the ways they get food is by setting snares."

"We."

Simon gave him a look that didn't really need a confused "What?" to follow it. Though he said this like he was out of breath, having the wind knocked out of him by one small word.

"Them and us. That's… we." Patrick felt physical pain trying to get that explanation out, since it was so awkward. Though Simon understood.

He understood, but he didn't exactly agree. "Yeah, maybe. Point is, you could probably build more."

"I could try. I _will_ try." Patrick quickly corrected himself.

"Great," Simon said with a hint of enthusiasm. He scrunched up his nose a bit when he continued. "but first, I think it's very important that you know that _we _have functioning showers here." Patrick laughed nervously as the man finished his thought. "You could really use one. Priorities." Then, in a joking way, he added: "You could shower. You will shower, right?" Patrick nodded, and Simon didn't notice any reluctance because that only went on in his head. "Good job. You'll be doing us all a favor. " His eyes landed on Patrick's wrist, which was skinnier than he ever remembered. The bracelet around it had slipped so that it settled around the middle of his hand. "Watch out," he advised, pointing a stern finger. His tone suddenly tired. "You're gonna lose that."

Patrick's heart stopped for a second, and an old fear crept into it. "I really wish you wouldn't say that like it's definite. I don't want it to be true."

"Neither do I," Simon agreed. "so watch out." He was ready to go outside again, but was held back. If only by a tone of voice.

"Si?"

The man smiled. "I really missed that." He turned around. "What?"

"Are you gonna tell Viri I didn't do anything?" Patrick's tone was more guilt-ridden than threatening, as per usual. He didn't expect Simon to listen even if he told him not to mention it.

Sighing, Simon asked: "Why would I bother telling her you didn't see the point in hanging up a bunch of useless crap from your half-ton backpack for total strangers to see?"

Patrick's eyes found the floor before he looked back up at Simon. He hated having to correct people, yet he was so proper in the way that he spoke. "It's not all useless; and they're not all strangers."

"...Alright then." Simon said, relieved rather than annoyed by that information. "Get clean and get to work." Patrick sent him a thumbs-up in reply that only seemed effortless. "Much appreciated." the man said, clearly mocking the teen. They both smiled as he left, but only the elder kept smiling once they were out of each other's line of sight.

* * *

Closed eyes and cold feet. That's what the prison showers reduced Patrick to. He had only taken his shoes off, to prepare himself. It wasn't very effective, as he couldn't even keep his eyes open. How was it that a place of cleanliness brought on the creepiest feelings? Feelings he only brought upon himself.

Frustrated, his eyes flew open with force. The place was something out of a nightmare, though there was nothing out of the ordinary with it. He knew he should feel grateful that it was even there. Even if it came in blurry once he took his glasses off. He pressed on, but didn't make it too far. His glasses fell to the floor just ahead of him. It took a second for his brain to process, and he almost stepped on them.

He could feel his breath leave him. His chest caved in and his mouth hung open. He gasped for air that evaded him despite his efforts, and his arms felt like someone had cut them open, filled them up with rocks and sewn them back up again. The blood rushed from his head to his bare feet. His eyes brimmed with tears until he couldn't see, and the more he tried to breathe the less it seemed to work.

The reality was, he was hyperventilating. Some part of him knew that. He knew that if he didn't remind himself how to breathe, his breathing might stop. In the back of his mind, he heard counting and a clicking tongue. Big breath in. He held it and then let it out. Repeating the process until the world around him returned to normal. It took minutes, but it felt like hours.

This was a good motivator for him because he didn't have time to waste. Once he was over the panic attack, it made it easier to forget fear and focus on what he had to do.

* * *

Wild pigs and horses had been seen by many of the prison group in passing, but Ira was among the first to realize just how much of a valuable asset they could be. He wasn't too sure what struck up the conversation between him and Hershel, but he liked having someone else to talk to while the members of his little group had their own business to attend to.

Viri was getting all their clothes clean, which was strange because she was less fond of domestic work than being a part of the action. But she'd promised that she would take things easily, and she had yet to break a promise to Patrick.

He tried to make it a fair trade, but once four makeshift snares were built he had to test them. He just didn't expect to get caught in the act.

Simon had been keeping tabs, and seeing him so far from the safety of his cell made him nervous and angry. He tried not to sound like it when he addressed Patrick, which was rare. "Ya know, the good thing about snares is they do most of the work for you." The boy looked up, his eyes more curious than concerned. Another rarity. "All you have to do is be. Patient." The last two words were punctuated for emphasis, since Patrick's patience ran thin whenever something concerned himself.

Other people, he could wait on. That's why he wasn't bothered that he hadn't talked to anyone since Simon gave him this job to do. The first of many. A job he wanted to carry out thoroughly. "They aren't going to set themselves." Patrick reasoned.

In response, Simon sent him a look that expressed words he would never actually say aloud: _Are you sassin' me, boy_? The thoughts he voiced were: "I can handle that. Besides, didn't you just get yourself cleaned up?"

"Yesterday." Patrick replied, because that was the deal. He figured a day was soon enough. Obviously, the adults didn't see it that way.

"I still keep track of the days," Simon revealed. "Just not the way you do." He watched the teen give a weak nod in reply. "Why don't you go back inside, wash up again and talk to your… not strangers?" He couldn't exactly call them friends yet. Patrick hadn't.

"About what?" There didn't seem to be much to discuss. Not with all the work the residents had to do.

Maybe that's why the person who talked to him the longest since he got there hadn't exchanged one more word since.

While Simon pushed him back in the direction he needed to go, he said: "Despite the way you talk, you're really just like any other kid. 'Cause you have trouble listening."

Patrick laughed. "I _did_ listen," He said as he tried to turn around and look at Simon, who was still playfully pushing him in guidance. "I just figured my time was up."

Simon's narrowed eyes locked on his. "What is that? Prison humor?" Patrick gave a goofy grin in affirmation, making the man scoff. "You really are…" He trailed off, noticing something. Something other than how wide Patrick's eyes went in reaction to words he had yet to speak. "a terrible listener." He hooked the bracelet Patrick was still wearing with one finger. "I told you to watch out for this."

"I am." He said softly, though the words offered Simon no reassurance. Simon followed the boy's logic. In Patrick's eyes, the best way to keep track of something was to keep it close.

That didn't work when what he was keeping track of was close to falling off. He'd worn it so long he probably wouldn't feel a difference. It was a part of him now.

"I think you should find another way." Knowing how stubborn Patrick had been about this, Simon said something else to make the boy see his side. "How many tries did it take you to build those things?" He pointed behind him, where the snares were. One of which looked like it might not function the way it was intended. (He tried not to point out that specific one, knowing it would only make Patrick upset.)

The sound in response was a telling one, that expressed there were really no words for the difficulty. This had taken a lot of energy and improvising. That much was clear.

"Exactly. Go be social."

Patrick's only response to that-as he went on his way looking over his shoulder at Simon for a moment-was an eyebrow raise and a lopsided smile. Being social wasn't an easy job, but he would try his best.

He waved to Ira and Hershel as he passed them. Moments later, Viri was back at Simon's side, with a plastic bag full of now-clean clothes. She could see he looked scared, despite being back on the safe side of the fence. "What happened?" She asked as she handed the bag over.

He gave her an appreciative smile, though he sounded sad. "Patrick keeps pushing his limits." He said under a sigh.

"Trying to handle everything on his own." She said, proving that she'd seen that herself.

He nodded. "He's gotta learn to adjust. What's gonna happen days from now when we go on a run and leave him here?"

Her head turned sharply, and all her focus was set on Simon in that moment. "Why would we leave him here?" Once he had his strength back, she didn't see the point. Doing things as a unit was their way.

"We haven't seen anything that makes us not wanna trust these people. Patrick will be safe with them. So will Ira."

She stared, her head slightly cocked to the side. "Now you're doubting your brother's ability, too?" She asked disappointedly.

"_No_." His sharp tone drowned out a sob. "We all cut it so close." Viri knew that. She still felt guilty over it. "I never want it to get that bad again. If letting them stay here while we go out helps, that's what I wanna do."

She looked straight at him sympathetically, but said: "It won't help." She took his free hand and saw that she had his full attention. "The good, the bad… it's all gonna come in waves. And none of us are safe from the flood."

* * *

After another fast shower, Patrick was reevaluating the work he'd done on the privacy screen. Turns out, it took all the fabric he had left to patch up. The needle and thread had been given back, and what looked like an orange target now filled in the missing middle piece of the sheet. That orange once matched the band Patrick wore, but it was richer in color because it had been in storage so long. He placed his hand in the center of the 'target' to see the contrast. What he saw was that he should have heeded Simon's warnings. What he saw was his own bare, skinny wrist.

He fought off another panic attack, not wanting to be back in a place where that was his most common response to issues that arose. For a moment, his eyes burned. Though tears never left them.

He wasn't sure what made him angrier. The fact that he'd lost the bracelet and had nothing left to replace it with, or the fact that Simon was right. He thought about walking it off rather than retracing his steps. Odds were, he wouldn't find it again. And inside, there wasn't a lot of space to run.

Before he came to a decision, he heard a voice from behind him. A voice he hadn't heard in two days.

"Hey." He turned to see Carl standing there, holding baby Judith. And the bracelet he'd been ready to make himself forget about. "Here."

"Thanks." He said, his tone full of the relief he felt. He knew there was no time to question where the bracelet was found. No time to mention the next story he was sitting on. In a moment, Carl would go off to greet his father who was returning from his run.

That was confirmed when Beth came into view. Carl handed his baby sister over with the same reluctant look he wore when Beth said she missed him, and give her to him to hold. Patrick didn't know anything about that.

But what he was sure of-as he put his bracelet with the inkless pens and the capped markers-was that Carl had the best job in the world.

* * *

Dinner that night felt like another feast. Not because the group was eating anything particularly special. It felt like a celebration because the numbers hadn't dwindled at all. That was something put in danger day to day. Especially when people left for chunks of time, and there was the heightened fear that they would not return.

Patrick made a point to learn as many names as possible.

He wrote them all down, along with the names that he already knew. He wrote on graph paper in red pen, with both impressive speed and control. Some stopped eating to watch. Each name was written as a different pattern of loops and lines. Simon jokingly scolded him to stop showing off, but he couldn't help getting creative.

As he wrote, he created a failsafe for his memory. And kept a dream alive that this world had threatened to kill.

* * *

Patrick initially thought the pile of Legos he came across the following morning had about the same appeal as a game of tag.

Yet they pulled his attention away from the work he had to do multiple times. The fourth time around, he actually considered sitting down to play with them. Just the thought made his stomach turn.

Especially with the sounds he couldn't tune out, of Carl taking his gun apart feet away.

The noises plagued his ears. In a similar fashion that the younger boy's short story had. He'd dropped by Patrick's cell at an early hour-by his standards-to give the abridged version of the day he was born. An exchange. An explanation of how it happened, who was there.

And who was not.

Those words weren't supposed to hurt. They were supposed to be a comfort, proving once again that Carl could relate to him on some level. But he didn't get the brightest of beginnings, either. Patrick hadn't hoped for that.

Every movement overheard shamed him for allowing the thought of playing to cross his mind. It was clear the other boy didn't see that as an option anymore. Even though his father had brought the Legos back especially for him.

That should've been reason enough for Patrick to find another way to fill his time. These things didn't belong to him. Just because they hadn't been put to use didn't mean it was his job to make sure they were. What good would that do anyone? Whose mind would it put to ease?

Patrick kept up this debate with himself in hopes that the harsh world would win out over this little bubble of contentment he'd stumbled across. He found he wasn't as stubborn as his father when it came to avoiding things that made him truly happy. Even the trivial things.

He sat down in spite of himself.

What struck him was how bright the colors were. It had been awhile since he'd seen anything that hadn't taken on a general tint of 'bland'. Including his clothes. That-despite being clean-made it look like he blended in with the wall behind him.

Maybe he had seen richer colors before then. He just didn't take time to appreciate them.

He looked over the pieces, and he wasn't shocked that he'd be building something mobile. That made sense, given how restless he was. He felt like it would take more effort to pick up the first piece than it would take to build the entire vehicle.

His eyes bounced around briefly. Carl and Beth were hard at work at jobs they took on themselves.

While she didn't have much change in routine, her looking after Judith was extremely important. She only broke her focus to send Patrick a smile. It seemed encouraging, and any doubts he felt about doing this faded.

He took his time, even though there was hardly any guesswork about how the thing fit together. Most of it was automatic, like he was used to doing this. And he was, he realized.

He liked putting things together a lot more than he like taking them apart.

As he went about building, he wondered why he'd been so stubborn before. It was actually fun if he let himself forget about everything else.

That part was a challenge, emphasized by how immediately aware he was of the sound of approaching footsteps. He kept most of his attention on playing, although his ears were still in tune to everything around him.

He sensed another smile, but it wasn't directed at him. He looked up in response to a greeting that was. "Hey, Patrick."

"Hey… Mr. Grimes." He hoped he didn't sound as guilty as he was back to feeling. He tried to make up for that with: "Thanks for grabbin' these."

Rick was smiling, which offered comfort that hadn't quite caught up to Patrick again. It was good someone was playing. The only sad part about it was that someone wasn't the person Rick had in mind. "Well, I-" He gestured toward the Legos as he went on. "thought Carl might want 'em."

At first, words failed Patrick. He'd recognized that. And it was one thing to do something he felt was wrong. It was an even worse thing to have it pointed out. He averted his eyes, but only for a second. "They were just sitting there..." He exhaled. He wasn't sure if it was a sigh or a way to stop himself from thinking like he was. Like choosing to be a kid was a bad thing. Even here. _Especially _here. "I figured it'd been awhile." He breathed again and felt better, despite not knowing what the look in Rick's eyes meant. "I'm not ashamed that they're for ages four to twelve." Saying that solidified the feeling.

It was a rule he had for himself, but most of the time he broke his own rules.

"You shouldn't be." Rick agreed, leaning forward and giving him a tap on the shoulder. It was strange, but it always seemed to happen that way. The moment Patrick got completely comfortable with something, it was practically over. The silent signal also meant goodbye, which just seemed to shove that thought of getting a grip on something he wouldn't have much longer in his face. That's the way his world worked.

He heard Rick walk over to Carl, who was still focusing all his energy on cleaning his gun. (Patrick wondered if his thoughts wandered at all during the process, or if he was able to shut them off.) "Hey." The man greeted. His son echoed the word, but his voice didn't have the same sort of tone. It sounded more like a reflex than a real response. And Patrick didn't have to be looking to know that he didn't make eye contact.

It was easier for him to sense when someone _was _looking in his general direction-like Judith, whose eyes settled on him briefly while he played-but knowing when eye contact was avoided was only clear in this case because he knew that tone. He'd used that tone.

After too long of a pause, Rick said: "Carl."

"Yes?" Another reflex reply, said without looking up. Within the next second, everything was put back in place. And even though the younger boy's eyes remained focused on his gun, there was still one small sign that he had respect for his father. Why else, Patrick thought, would he wear that hat?

"Carl." Rick repeated, more stern this time. Another tone of voice Patrick remembered well. The kind that was effective in getting attention. "I need your help with somethin'." The man told his son. Patrick could tell the response to this was another reflex, even though he hadn't looked anywhere but directly in front of him in awhile.

It was strange even for Patrick to have his hands full only with Legos. He didn't consider himself a fighter, but it was a rule to never be without weapons. A rule he'd only broken that morning, when Ira told him to forget about one of them for awhile.

At first, he took it as a joke knowing he'd been manning the fence. Then he thought about it more, and realized the group agreeing to put their guns down didn't leave them totally defenseless. In his case, the new rule was just another reminder to stay hyper-aware.

He would never really forget. He couldn't. Finding what felt like home at a prison didn't change that. Nothing would. Which is why muscle memory had him occasionally reaching for something that was no longer there.

And why Carl wasn't expecting what his father said next: "Leave it behind."

"What?" The younger boy voiced confusion and reluctance that Patrick had felt hearing those exact words. Under different circumstances.

"It'll just get in the way."

* * *

When he got done with playing, Patrick was alone with his thoughts. Beth had invited him outside-and of course that was where he'd rather be-but something kept him in.

A distance of mere feet had allowed for a world of separation. No wonder he and Carl hadn't made conversation then. What could they possibly say to each other that would be understood in that moment? The younger of the two didn't look like a kid. And Patrick questioned why he felt proud of himself for acting like one.

Fun was another lost luxury. It wasn't like the group didn't deserve to have fun anymore. There just wasn't always time. He remembered it more. What it had been like. He remembered that the fun times were the ones he would prefer to just skip over. That was more regretful than risking people judging him for not acting his age.

Age, he realized as he stared down at the tabletop where Carl had left his gun fairly close to an open but untouched coloring book, was not the issue here. They were both kids. The difference was that Patrick had made the choice to be a kid that didn't see the world's end as an end to childhood. Carl didn't think he had that choice.

Maybe what they needed was a balance. But Patrick didn't think there was a fair amount of room for work and play. He had never allowed for there to be. He decided-as he looked over the project he'd been working on-that playtime would just have to come in pieces.

The way Patrick saw it, he and Carl had the right to act like kids. They were also required to act like adults. Being one or the other would just make for disaster.

Both mindsets existed within the two of them. Sometimes they fought each other. When both attitudes existed in harmony, allowing one to take control at the appropriate times, that was when it all clicked.

That's when Patrick realized where he stood. Where Carl stood. And he made sure to write it down lest he forget.

* * *

That day wore on and most of the group was ready to retire to their cells before the sun even set. As Carl made his way back to the spot where he'd left his gun, he took in the expressions worn by everyone he walked past. Most of them were visibly tired, achy even, but none of them looked particularly upset. Even with all the changes taking place lately.

It was going to take getting used to. Carl had a feeling he would never be able to wake up at the crack of dawn. That was just one of the reasons filling the role of a farmer full-time was out of the question for him. It was odd. He had to lose part of himself to do that, even if was only a part-time thing. Just being without his hat that long had him feeling out of sorts.

He'd changed a lot already. He knew that. This didn't make up for any negative changes. This felt like going backwards.

The floor under his feet already felt less familiar. The sound of his footsteps bounced off the prison walls and aimed back at him, since he was alone in the area. The spot where the Legos were strewn across the floor had been cleared. He glared at the empty space. Not angry that an opportunity had been stolen from him. Angry that the opportunity no longer existed.

He stopped just before he got back to the table, awestruck by the sight of whatever Patrick built sitting atop it. Next to his gun.

The toy car served as a paperweight for a note, which made it look like a gift. And a chance, to have that missed opportunity back.

The note was written in calligraphic script with red ink on a torn of piece of a page from that abandoned coloring book. The message was short, from what Carl could see. In his dull shock, it took him a second to realize that it was addressed to him.

_Young __Sir_

* * *

Sleep was always the same slow process for Patrick. It was a chore for him, and one of the only chores he didn't enjoy putting in work for. His brain didn't stop on account of his body. It raced with thoughts he couldn't sort out. Until tiredness caused those thoughts to quiet, he lied there with one hand tucked under his head. Counterproductive, he figured. Since he'd never be able to fall asleep in that position.

It was eerily quiet since he was the last of the group to turn in for the night. Or, more accurately, among the last.

Something cut through the silence, and it startled him until he realized what it was. The sound of small rubber wheels rolling along until they bumped into the nearly empty box by his bottom bunk. Patrick took that as another answer to a question he had never voiced.

His eyes opened, and a smile graced his face when he caught the glow of a familiar flashlight shining along the walls...

**Thanks for reading, PLEASE REVIEW! (If any of you have read one of my other stories, you know that cursing is a rarity. It just makes more sense here, giving the rating of the show, but it will be sporadic.) I have a bunch of Patrick's backstory in mind, but where I could use inspiration is for events in the present time. Let me know what you guys want me to elaborate on, who you want to see more of and what you wanna see happen. Ideas are GREATLY appreciated.**

**Just for some background, I didn't count Patrick as a Woodbury survivor because he's listed under Prison Newcomers on the wiki. Also, I'm not sure about who would've found him, but I call Carol and Daryl his rescuers because he's first seen with them when he's introduced.**

**I'll update ASAP! =]**


	3. Slow to Start

**SO happy to be updating (even though this chapter is less action-y than anticipated. I've already thought of one scene to make up for it next time). **

**This chapter is dedicated to sinfulesoteric, totalgeek479 and Amanda. Enjoy!**

**I do not own The Walking Dead**

"_Preschool starts soon. Is Patrick excited?" The man raising him had to wonder if his boss was only asking questions to kill time. He answered anyway._

"_It's another thing to keep him busy. So, naturally."_

"_You think he's ready?"_

"_Why wouldn't he be?" At that moment, the office felt stuffy._

_The answer was blunt. "We all know he was slow to make the charts."_

_Patrick had been born more than two months premature. Being born early to the world meant opening his gifts later._

"_He'll catch up." His father dismissed. Though he was mapping out all the extra appointments he had to set up in his head. The two would be headed to one soon after he got off of work._

_Patrick had been under the care of a babysitter for the past few hours. His father kept thinking the day would come where he would get behind with paying her, given every other expense. Luckily, that day never came._

"_How's he been?" The last time Patrick had spoken to his father was that morning. Not that much conversation was expected out of the four-year-old, but sometimes it stopped altogether._

"_Quiet." Came the reply. "I think he knows you're itching to get out of here."_

"_I just need to find a cheaper place." The man justified. "I've been holding onto this one too long."_

"_It get why. It was supposed to be her place, too."_

_For a moment there, he was the quiet one. "He hardly asks about her anymore. Aren't kids supposed to be curious about that kinda stuff?"_

_The response was spoken under a sigh. "It's not the life he knows. I know you don't wanna hear this, but his biggest connection to his mother is you. No matter how many stories you tell, I don't think he'll ever feel close to her."_

_Their hushed tones might be appreciated if it wasn't for the sad words spoken. Not that all of them were processed. The child lying next to the two adults on the couch pressed his ear to the cushion and kept his mouth and eyes shut._

* * *

Those eyes hardly seemed the same without black frames around them. Patrick sat up as Carl followed behind the toy car. He only took a few steps before he noticed the look on the older boy's face. He seemed annoyed, but Carl doubted that had anything to do with having to put off sleep. It had more to do with how much of of a challenge it was for Patrick to focus without wearing glasses. Or so he thought.

Patrick quietly cleared the grogginess out of his throat. "Did you run out of reading material?" The question was casually phrased, but he felt he was being harsh to the younger boy.

If he noticed, he didn't clue him into that. "For now."

Apparently, no one else had the luxury of a little library. Either that, or Carl hadn't really read. "Do you actually…" Patrick almost said 'comprehend', but that would make it sound like he thought Carl was stupid. So, instead, he continued with: "remember what you're reading, or do your eyes just scan the pages?"

Even out of focus, Patrick knew a glare when he saw one. It was all Carl offered in answer, because at that point he knew the other was angry. He hadn't come to argue. Their silent streak had been broken long before then, and Carl was the one to break it to begin with. He thought that was apology enough.

Patrick only had the chance to tell one of his stories so far, but it was heavier than he probably realized. Still, Carl wanted to hear what ever else he had to share. Even just for the sake of hearing.

"It's good, if you still have an escape." Patrick said finally, changing his tune. They both knew there was no real escape. That's what made conversing complicated.

Still, they were set in their thinking. They were survivors, but that wasn't the only story they had. Patrick motioned for Carl to sit. They were in the same spots as last time, because Patrick didn't want the guilt that came with keeping the comfort of the bed he'd been sitting on.

He picked up his glasses-because they weren't a far reach away-and looked them over. The sight sparked a story. "I could tell you about the day I got these." He offered, putting them on.

Carl nodded. He knew firsthand that even the simplest material things could hold sentimental value. What he couldn't decide was if those items meant more if they showed a glimmer of who the owner was before they were forced to change.

_The waiting room in the optometrist's office was so crowded it could've sent Patrick running. Had he not been holding tight to his father's hand. _

_The two sat and waited. The man thumbed through a magazine and offered for his son to read over his shoulder. The little boy had no interest in that. It only led to headaches. (Even his earliest memory came with the feeling of feigning detachment.) He'd sat there swinging his feet just slightly and staring at the lines on his palms._

"The first thing I really remember is jumping when I heard my name." He was simply startled, but that was a recurring theme in his life. Being afraid of harmless things.

_Both his father and the person who called him laughed in response. A hand was left outstretched in case he wanted to take it, but at this point he'd calmed down. He stayed by his father's side and they entered the room where he would take his eye exam. _

"Did you know right away?" Carl asked. Patrick gave a vigorous nod. He was much younger then, but the clues were everywhere. The clues that told him his eyes were bad. At that age, that's the only way he saw it.

"My dad wanted to teach me how to read before I started school. And it worked. I was a better student than I thought I was. The hardest part about reading for me was differentiating the letters." Patrick knew the difference, he just couldn't tell what it was. "It wasn't until I got older and looked through my dad's logbooks that I figured out he caught onto my less-than-perfect vision a lot quicker than I did." His eyes were laughing, but his ears still rang with the sound of his father's voice behind words written in logbooks long lost. "Before that day, there were all these notes about… contraptions I had hooked up to me as a baby. And the solution they used to make my pupils dilate…" His sentence was only halfway over, but it trailed off on an upbeat. He pantomimed the action, opening his hand. "Dad said it made me look like a cartoon character."

Carl gave something of a nod in response. He could see that. "Were you happy about it?" He guessed not. From what he heard, kids typically dreaded getting things like that. It wasn't considered a fashion statement until more recently. "Or was it… as annoying as getting... braces?" Same goes for those.

He was answered with hushed laughter.

"What?" Carl didn't see what was funny about that. His only hint was the smile that had settled on Patrick's face. At first, it could hardly be called a smile. Within seconds, it was unmistakably toothy. And there was the punchline. The younger boy said it out loud just to make sure. "You had braces, too?"

"That's a story for another day." Patrick replied. "We can go through all my medical procedures and… afflictions one at a time." There was an audible edge emphasizing the word 'afflictions'." One Patrick thought he'd laughed off. The feeling resurfaced quickly, and he thought it better to explain it than let Carl think an innocent question was to blame for the attitude. "I should've been happy." The volume of his voice had stayed the same, but his tone took a dark turn. "I needed this. I _knew _I needed it." Even then. "But I was happy to put it off. Pretend it wasn't happening." If he'd had his way, he would've stayed asleep. "I did that a lot, but…" Patrick's glance moved from a confused Carl to the prison walls. He imagined himself standing outside them. At the fences, facing the monsters on the other side. "this… can't be ignored."

What Carl couldn't ignore was the anger Patrick directed at himself. He'd been upset about something he couldn't change. Something others might see as insignificant. The worst part was as much as he regretted acting that way, that couldn't be changed either. When Carl spoke next, he paraphrased the four-year-old version of the boy sitting in front of him. "Your eyes are bad." There was nothing tacked onto that first sentence, but his tone carried words that brushed that off: _So, what?_ "You're not bad."

"You say that like you're sure of it."

Carl wasn't sure. Not totally. Not after what he'd seen. But that's what he wanted to believe. "You're sitting here telling me about why the _rims around your eyes_ mean so much to you, right?" That's really all the were. Yet that description didn't even come close.

Patrick blinked, and there was a pause before he thought of something to say. "Even the worst people have things they cherish."

"_C'mon_." One mumble was motivation enough for the older boy to cut them both some slack.

He stopped fighting himself, and went on with the story. "I was seeing letters that… don't exist in any alphabet I've come across. It was so frustrating I wanted to cry." After the first story he'd told, admitting what he did next was easy. "I wanted to cry a lot back then. I wanna cry a lot _now_." He said this as a joke, but Carl had seen serious proof. "I was able to be fitted that same day. They looked to my dad for direction on style, but he wanted to leave that up to me, since-as you've heard-I didn't allow myself a lot of freedom. And I must've seen this coming because-" Patrick cut himself short, remembering something else. He got up and took the palm-sized photo album from his backpack, pulling one of the first pictures out of its plastic sleeve. "I brought this with me that day."

He passed the picture over. The first thing Carl noticed about it was that it looked older than its actual age. It was black and white, but yellowing. A corner was ripped and part of it looked like something had begun to eat away at it. He could still make out the faces in the picture. Without a doubt, it was Patrick's parents. (Sitting on the porch outside their house.) He mostly looked like his father. Except he had a few of his mother's facial features. Most notably, the eyes. They stuck out more on her because her hair was so light. Probably blonde, Carl guessed. Those eyes of hers were bright and smiling, through the black frames that helped them see.

A silent laugh escaped Carl's lips. "I didn't think she wore glasses."

"Yeah," Patrick agreed. "neither did I. She hated those. That's the only picture I have of her in them. But I thought they were nice."

_Patrick's father had stood before him in awe. "I wondered what happened to that."_

"_I'm sorry, Dad. I had it stuck on my chalkboard." _That's how the corner got ripped.

"_You don't have to be sorry. It's a great… tribute."_

"That's how he saw it." After an awful eight year break, and a terrible loss, Patrick's father had made it his mission to find the best part of every situation he found himself in. "I just…" Patrick couldn't find the words to describe that particular moment.

Carl found them for him. "Wanted to feel like you knew her."

Patrick knew that detail about her. He'd uncovered that on his own. He'd made that connection. That had to count for something.

"That was the biggest part of it," He'd give him that. "but it still feels sorta selfish. As I got older, it became more about adding something to my personality. Having this… air of sophistication. Hoping people thought I was smart." As the years went by, the style of the frames changed. Now they only matched his mother's in color.

"I don't believe you." Patrick had expected Carl to be upset. That wasn't right. What he didn't realize was why he thought it was wrong. "It's not about how it makes you look."

With that, the older boy was lost. That could be seen in his eyes before it was heard in his words. "Then what's it about?"

Something Carl identified with strongly. "That's how you keep her with you."

* * *

The air wasn't exactly fresh, but just having the chance to be outside the next morning was refreshing for Patrick. By Viri's request, he still kept his distance from the fence. He surveyed the groups once again, the gears in his head turning. Fueled by the ideas about where he could contribute to their efforts. He couldn't wait to stop thinking and start doing.

Simon approached him with a small plastic pail of chalk. At least, that's how it appeared at first. When the man got closer, he realized the receptacle he carried wasn't a bucket without a handle. It was a container once used to pack food to go, missing the top.

"It's like Hanukkah all over again." Simon said as he handed the cup over to Patrick.

Eyebrows dancing, he reluctantly reached for the gift. "You're the one who celebrated Hanukkah."

"Yeah, well, _I _chose to practice the faith of my parents." Adoptive or not. He had the rule that blood didn't make a family long before the world ripped all but one of his biological family away. When he said this, Simon saw Patrick's face drop. He backpedaled, trying to fix that. "I swear, I wasn't trying to mock you."

Patrick nodded. He knew that. The man had missed his point completely. "And I wasn't trying to have a conversation about religion. I'm saying if it's like Hanukkah all over again, then _I _should be giving _you_ presents."

The way Simon saw it, there was no room for guilt in that clarifying tone. To try and lighten the mood, he jokingly yanked the chalk from the boy's grasp. This sparked a smile, which was something he could work with. "Don't feel bad that it took me this long to try and buy your friendship."

"You don't have to do that." Patrick said. It would only make him feel worse.

"I have to do _something_." Simon countered. That's why when this conversation came to a close, he would join some of the other adults in fashioning rope into a makeshift bridle and devising a plan for safely trapping pigs. "So do you. I'm just trying to fill your time."

Patrick wasn't sure the man knew how much of a relief that was to hear. Something to keep his mind off of how busy he wasn't. "Thank you."

Simon nodded as a way to say 'Don't mention it.' "One thing I noticed yesterday is how long kids' attention can be kept by something they haven't had in awhile."

"Really?" Patrick asked. "What gave you that idea?" As if he didn't know. It was odd to hear him be sarcastic. He wasn't all that good at it.

"I _saw_ you." Simon said. Then, in a mumble, he added: "I also saw that Rick's kid snatched up would could've totally been my Hanukkah gift." The two shared a laugh, and Simon went on explaining his thinking. "You should be the one to give the chalk to the other kids. Since we know you're so good at sharing. You could be their unofficial… den father or something."

The likelihood of that didn't seem to strong for Patrick. His lip curled up to hide behind his teeth before he spoke next. "I think I was lucky enough to get Carl to talk to me."

Simon wasn't backing down from his stance. "From what I've seen, luck's not something you run short on. And you're more popular than you think. Hell, even _I _like you."

"See? That's what I mean: Sheer luck."

Simon's eyebrows lowered. "Sounds more like a complete lack of confidence to me." It was infuriating how much Patrick brought himself down. "If I'm wrong, you can rub it in my face later. Go keep the kids busy."

"Will do." Patrick promised. This time, it was a promise he would make good on as soon as possible. He was done with putting things off.

* * *

Some of the chalk had ground up into powder at the bottom of the cup. The colors mixed as the pieces clanked together. The three children Patrick had given the chalk to had silently decided on using it sparingly. Most of the pieces remained untouched. Twenty minutes went by, and only a few drawings covered the walls and ground outside.

One of the girls under Patrick's care had asked if he wanted to join in on the drawing. (He kept a close eye, but a respectable distance. That was how he operated. It was plain for the adults to see, which left them without qualms about leaving him in charge.) The question didn't surprise him. The girl who phrased it thought his answer would be 'no'. She had to check, just in case she thought wrong. Just like last time.

"No thanks, Mika."

"Why not?" She didn't exactly sound disappointed. Just curious. The other children paid no mind, because they were busy collaborating on an art project.

Patrick had a job to do, simple as it was. The children weren't allowed outside the gates, and they didn't seem to mind that. Only three of them had gone along with Patrick's idea. Mika's sister, Lizzie, was off somewhere. With Carol, he guessed. Looking after Mika, Luke and Molly didn't feel like much of a hassle. They certainly didn't make things difficult on purpose. Still, the teen couldn't afford distractions.

Something else contributed to his reluctance to join in on the fun. "I'm not really good at drawing."

Mika titled her head just slightly in confusion. "But I've seen how you write. It's kind of like drawing."

"Oh, the calligraphy." He said as if he hadn't even realized. If he was honest with himself, he never really looked at that as an art when he did it. It was just a way to keep calm.

She laughed lightly, the word she knew but had forgotten now etched in her mind. "Yeah, it's nice."

"Thank you."

"Maybe you should just write your name." Mika suggested.

That was something he hadn't had a reason to do in a while. "Sure," he decided. "but where should I put it?"

"In your cell." She said this as if it was obvious. She didn't stumble through the last word like Viri had. "So everybody knows that's where you belong." That's not how Patrick felt. He figured that could change if he listened to her idea. If he listened to instructions. If he listened to the inspirations his racing mind spouted out about what to do and who to talk to. If he did that, he could make this work.

* * *

Not all the adults helped build pens to house animals that still belonged to the wild. Not all of them believed it could work. The ones who did looked to the Greenes for direction. Hershel knew the most about the process. Keeping pigs and horses had been part of his livelihood. And, though not to the same extent, it'd been part of his daughters' livelihoods, too.

The structures were all man-made. Planks of wood held together by ropes and wire, reinforced with pieces of metal fencing. It was all they had at the moment, but it looked promising. As Patrick made his way inside, he was reminded of how he felt walking up to the prison. In the days before, he may not have looked at the place twice. At least, not without a rush of emotions hitting him at once, before he pushed them all down and went on his way.

The prison was shelter. He could bet that wild as they were, the animals out there would appreciate a place like this. For them, the transition wouldn't be so tough.

Up until the past few days, he had never seen himself as a wild animal. That's how long it took to register. He'd always tried to be somewhat civilized, but he'd forgotten how to act around people. People he hadn't known before. Especially people who meant him no harm. There were times when he'd shut down. So, every time he took it slow, he worried he was headed down that path again.

Seeing the work the adults were putting in, he didn't worry. He was inspired.

* * *

A single, now slightly used piece of chalk sat atop Patrick's stack of books, which was now in the box at the foot of his bed. While patterns ran through his mind, he worked through a plan with his hands. He had picked through table scraps-which were a rare sight at this point-to find as many seeds as he possibly could. He tasked himself to remove them from whatever fruits and vegetables were leftover.

It was an idea he came up with on his own since joining the group at the prison that made him feel useful. More seeds, more plants, more food. Less hunger.

That meant something.

Patrick wanted everything to be as clean as possible before he brought it outside. He couldn't very well do that while the seeds still had a hunk of food attached.

The first step in this process was to make sure the knife he used was sterilized. Simply washing and wiping it clean didn't feel like enough. He had it blade down in a can of boiled water. Absentmindedly, he grabbed for the handle too early, and the heat coming off of it burned part of his palm. He winced and opened his grip. Luckily, the knife dropped back into the can without knocking it over.

"You okay?" For a second, he'd forgotten he was on display. Patrick looked up to see Carl, who was just passing through. On the way to a job that Patrick didn't know the details of. Still, he had a feeling that none of the members of this group did anything that could be classified as busywork.

"Fine." He meant it. He'd felt worse. The shock of it was more than the actual pain. It was rare for Patrick to something without thinking-or overthinking-first. "Just happy to be helping out."

"Yeah," Carl could bet. The older boy seemed like that kind of person. "next time don't hurt yourself trying to help us, alright?"

There was a pause before Patrick replied, though his answer came to mind immediately. "Sometimes it comes to that."

Carl had seen that for himself. He'd lived it, in some cases. His family put themselves in danger for the sake of doing good. For the sake of protecting people.

He meant what he'd said as a joke. Though he hoped Patrick would be careful. He wasn't expecting such a serious-and relatable-response. He didn't know how to follow it. Instead, he asked: "Who gave you that job, anyway?" He'd noticed the pattern over the past few days. For the most part, Patrick did what he was told.

The next words were paired up with a prideful smile. "I did."

"And boiling the knife?" The younger boy had a pretty good idea what that was about. (The way he phrased the question was strange, but Patrick knew what he meant.) It wasn't the smartest idea to seed fruit with the same knife used to take down walkers. Though, Carl wasn't sure Patrick had ever done that.

He caught onto his thoughts. More than he admitted, in that moment. "This'll be our food. Not theirs." Patrick was looking to help everyone survive longer, and that wasn't going to happen if he was responsible for spreading the infection.

After a nod, Carl's eyes settled on the signature on the wall. His response to this doubled as recognition for Patrick coming up with jobs for himself. "Cool." He didn't say so, but he seemed impressed that Patrick had managed to keep his hand so steady while writing.

"Thank you." That was the result of a lot of practice, he explained. "I used to have this little chalkboard hanging on my door." He watched Carl's eyebrows furrow hearing this. The chalkboard he pictured when Patrick told him the story about getting his glasses seemed bigger, to be able to hold the picture of his parents in one corner. That chalkboard seemed bigger because it was. Patrick picked up on Carl's confusion, he just didn't acknowledge it. "I would write these quotes and messages on there periodically."

"With how much you can talk, I'm surprised it all fit." Carl had a point there. With anything, whether it be making conversation or taking on work, Patrick was slow to start. He needed encouragement. Once he got started, he didn't want to stop.

"If I ran out of room, I'd just write on the door."

That was surprising. Patrick seemed to neat for that. Carl would've asked about it more, if he didn't have work to do. Instead, he just said: "Thanks."

As Carl was leaving, Patrick gave a non-verbal reply. Rather than shrug his shoulders, as a way to say it was no trouble, he let his expression do the talking.

Conversation had allowed the water to cool a bit, even if it was in a metal can. Patrick waited a little while longer, then got to work. Knife in hand, he carved out each seed he couldn't get to just by using his fingers. Then he placed them in his one empty eyeglass case. He would use that to carry them all outside, not bothered by how mixed up they would get along the way. He could distinguish them by sight. He got up and left his cell, the case softly rattling as he walked.

* * *

Once the seeds were separated, they were planted in rows. Patrick had helped with some of the planting. So far, all the tasks he took on himself seemed easy. People appreciated the effort, though. This helped remind him how much it mattered.

Occasionally, Simon would look over to see how Patrick was doing. (He did the same with Ira, who was happy to have his post at the fence.) "If they're impressed by this, they should see what that kid can do with a pipe wrench." He chuckled at his own statement-wondering whatever happened to that pipe wrench-while Viri gave him an odd look.

"I thought you wanted him to quit that."

"No. He can't quit it." Simon knew that was impossible. "I just want him to ease up a little."

"I think he's done a good job of that so far. Especially if he's finding time to write again."

Writing was almost all he did in between jobs. Being in a place like this, he always had some thoughts that only pages got to listen to. He went to pen an entry after helping with planting. He soon found that Beth had the same idea. She was lying on her bed, writing away.

He almost said something, but didn't want to break her concentration and make her lose her place. She sensed him standing there, though. She sent him a smile, and closed her journal. This told him she was curious in what he had to say.

"You write, too?"

Though she was smiling, she shook her head like she was disappointed. "Not like you do." She'd seen his calligraphy.

"I don't think that adds anything to the quality of my stories." Not that she knew what his stories sounded like. Besides, he didn't write that way when he made entries.

"They're still worth tellin'." She said to him, lazily flipping back through her own writing. A stray page fell to the floor. He went to pick it up for her. It didn't match the others. It had been torn from a composition book. "That one's not mine," She told him as she reached for it. "I'm just savin' it." As little of a story as there was to see on that page, she saw it as something worth saving.

He didn't ask why. He didn't seem welcome to. It was folded to the point where it served as a second bookmark. Still, he wondered what was on there. Mostly, he wondered whose it was. He didn't bother asking because he felt like he'd be bothering Beth by doing so.

"Well, I won't… keep you." He had his own writing to get back to anyway. Though he struggled through his sentence a bit, he didn't sound sad. He would see her soon.

She knew that, so her smiled stayed. "See ya."

The more Patrick wrote, the less it became about the day passing by. Soon his reflection ended, and he made a list of things to do later. He knew he could keep at that for a good, long time. He just didn't have the patience.

* * *

"Do you remember how it was?" Viri asked as Patrick scrubbed away at his fingernails. He hadn't asked for gardening gloves when he helped with the planting, so he was wearing his work. He seemed ashamed of that-since he scrubbed so hard his fingertips looked like raw meat-even though getting dirty meant he'd done well. He had nothing to be embarrassed about as far as his former leader was concerned. She'd seen him a lot less clean.

In fact, the first time she saw him after the end, his arms were covered in dirt past the elbow.

His mouth was closed, so it stifled a sigh, but he had to open it to answer her. "Mostly experimental." He couldn't help chuckling. Not at his own joke, but the memory behind it. "And it was fun." He admitted as he made sure he hadn't missed a spot. In the back of his mind, he knew he probably should've stopped scrubbing minutes ago. Viri seemed less worried about how hygienic he was, and more surprised that he'd used the word 'fun' to describe something he'd allowed himself to do. He had a feeling she would be. "By then I knew how to have fun." One of his eyebrows bounced a bit, as if that somehow validated the statement. "It was good, most of the time." He said this with a smile so genuine it was as if their world was back to the way they remembered it. His smile didn't fade, not completely, but half of it hid after a beat. "But… I don't think that had anything to do with me."

Since the scrubbing stopped-and she was relieved not to see any blood-Viri switched her focus to Patrick's eyes. "It's not gonna do us-" her eyes shifted slightly as she thought to include the rest of the group. The one that took her and her darlings in. "or them any good if _all _you do is doubt yourself." She talked with her hands, one of which chopped through the air to drive her point.

Patrick nodded, but he wasn't set on helping with this particular task just yet. He wished he could take it as an instruction rather than a suggestion, but a loud thought was holding him back. He voiced it, "What if I'm not what's missing?" Her look of determination dissolved at these words. Viri knew where his mind was. Though, suddenly, his thoughts moved from the past to the present. "She doesn't need my help."

"She has more mouths to feed now." Viri pointed out.

What he said next threatened to throw her off track again. "It wasn't about the food before."

"I know that." What was missing couldn't be brought back. "I saw what you did today." She was done trying to argue, for now, and decided to encourage instead. Which was what helped him the most. "Imagine how it's gonna feel when you get to prepare what you planted." She let that sink in for a second, then said: "Imagine how _proud_-"

"Okay." He hadn't meant to cut her off. When someone said 'imagine', he couldn't help doing just that. Having the thought in his head wasn't enough, though. He wanted to help. He _had _to help. He just got discouraged. It was hard to stay like that with the look she gave him.

"So, you're gonna be a sous chef again." She said with a smile.

He laughed. "So long as I'm wanted." His one condition carried the doubt that was so difficult for him to drive out of his head.

Viri had no doubt whatsoever. "It'll take some time, but they'll love you, too."

With those words, he was off to help Carol with cooking.

* * *

He hadn't meant to weasel his way into the group's good graces, but that was what taking on the job felt like. Given the circumstances, the others were bound to send smiles in the direction of the ones who served them food. Or, at least, an acknowledging nod. He also enjoyed the amused laughs he got after acting on the overwhelming urge to shout "Chow time!"

It went well. Better than he expected, but that was usually the case. Afterward, everyone was resting up. They weren't quite ready for sleep, but most of the day's work was behind them.

Simon aided his brother in walking down the stairs, and Viri waited for them at the bottom. "You ever get tired of that?" He asked her, about midway.

"What?" She asked, hands on her hips. She knew he couldn't be talking about spotting. That was instinct. The kind he could identify with.

"Offering Patrick jobs he doesn't feel up to." Simon explained.

She shook her head as the other two reached the landing. "I push until I don't have to anymore. I knew he can handle this."

"He's the one who forgets." Ira added. Knowing full well he could get like that, too.

"Where's he off to now?" Simon found it odd that he didn't know. He usually had eyes on everyone in his group. Being here, it seemed he was in need of a lot more eyes.

"Another job." Viri informed. "Dish duty with Beth and Zach."

Ira's eyes narrowed. "That doesn't seem right. The ones who cook shouldn't have to clean."

She shrugged. "He volunteered." No pushing required.

"Of course he did." Simon scoffed. "He may not think he's good for much, but he likes to keep a full plate." Otherwise, he grew anxious.

* * *

Patrick hoped he was actually moving things along, instead of just taking up space. It didn't help that he was in the middle, where Zach most likely wanted to be. Sure, he had his priorities. But he was too friendly to make it all about him and Beth.

She had her arms going in all directions, handling plates the boys had just washed. Her job was to dry them.

Patrick saw that this system sped up the process, once he got past the doubt that was weighing him down. He wished that was something that could be washed off, along with his reluctance. He really was happy to help. It just took him awhile to remember why.

He liked feeling productive. Now that he'd assisted in cooking, he had a job to go back to. A regular gig. It put his mind at ease, which was saying something.

"So..." Zach began rather randomly. The three had been talking as they worked, but this was the first of his questions that hid behind a verbal ellipsis. He was waiting for Patrick to look over at him before he continued. Beth smiled to herself. She knew what was coming. "did you have a job before this?"

The look Patrick gave in response held the echo of a question he'd posed to Carl. ..._before all this? _It was obvious that's what Zach meant. So, Patrick told him: "I had two."

He said this casually. His audience of two didn't exactly seem impressed. More like shocked. "You're barely Beth's age, right?"

"I didn't have both jobs at the same time." Patrick clarified. Though that was already clear.

"That's what I mean," Zach said. For a second, his words dissolved into disgruntled grunts. Then they formed again. "That's crazy."

Patrick shrugged. Maybe. Maybe not. The others didn't know the full story. They didn't know how long he held the jobs down for. "I could just have terrible work ethic."

They both laughed. Even though they barely knew him, they knew that wasn't true.

"Are you gonna tell him what you did, or have him guess?" Beth gave Patrick the first option to try to save him the trouble of the second.

He was intrigued. "You can guess?" Personally, he'd never liked guessing games. Too much pressure.

"I can try."

"It might take awhile." This sparked another laugh.

"He doesn't mind." Beth told Patrick, reaching for the last of the plates.

Patrick must've been too focused on the work-and conversation-to notice what he did then.

The scar on her wrist. He could almost feel the slice, seeing it clearly for the first time. His eyes had wandered, but his mind was stuck. It wasn't that he wanted to know about it. That was up to her.

For him, the mark served as a reminder of conversations he had yet to get to. (Though, the first memory he recounted to Carl could fit under this category.)

Only a few of Patrick's own scars were visible, but they all had stories behind them...

**Thanks for reading, PLEASE REVIEW! It'd be cool to have your opinions on things:**

**1\. What kinds of things do you wanna know about Patrick? Especially as a child, since most of my ideas happen when he's preteen-teen. If you have ideas of your own and not just questions, feel free to share those.**

**2\. How should I incorporate the adults? The focus is on Patrick, but I feel like the adults at the prison have had about three lines and they've all been Rick's.**

**3\. Do you mind that most people in the flashbacks don't have given names?**

**4\. Lastly, Patrick has common ground with a handful of people at the prison. Some of which I thought up before episodes that showcase that premiered. The circumstances are different, but I just wanna make sure that's okay.**

**Let me know if you have any ideas about this or anything I didn't cover in my questions. Also, if there are any spelling/grammar/phrasing mistakes. And if there's anything you want me to elaborate on. I'll update ASAP! =] **


	4. The Promise to Fight

**_To the lovely little crowd that reads this underdog story of mine, sorry for the long wait. Originally, this chapter was going to be a bit longer. So chapter 5 is already started._**

**_This chapter is dedicated to sinfulesoteric and a guest._**

**_I do not own The Walking Dead_**

_Patrick was unable to hear himself think over the sound of his rapid-fire heartbeats. His trembling hands lost their grip on the Parry blade, and it crashed to the ground. Though this caused some of the blood to smear, it was still coated from tip to the other end. _

_He knew that if he could remember how to count, he could calm himself down. He knew that if he could feel his legs, he could run. Far to where the monster on the ground could not follow. Not that it was able to follow in the state Patrick left it in._

_His eyes found its bare feet. Where a toe tag would hang if the world hadn't ended. Patrick tried to visualize that. He tried to pretend the yard he was standing in was a morgue. Anything to get it through his head that this thing was dead._

_A thought, not exactly comforting, crossed his clouded mind. Toe tags were an outdated practice. An ankleband was what he should've pictured. Like the wristbands used for hospital patients. No need to put the band where a pulse was more easily found. No chance of finding that pulse now._

"No…" That one soft word was all Patrick got out before he realized where he was. In his bed at the prison. His eyes had just opened, and moved to the doorway. He didn't know what he expected to end up in his line of impaired vision.

Carl was there. Which told him that either his cries were louder than he thought, or the younger boy couldn't sleep. There was a third option, though. Considering Patrick had not yet told a story that day. He didn't plan on recounting the one that had just haunted his dreams.

What a way to mark his first week at the prison that would've been.

He wanted to tell his stories in order. Somehow, Carl knew that. "We're not there yet, are we?" He asked, once he got the cue to come in.

Patrick shook his head. Then he put on his glasses while Carl thought of another question.

"Can I at least know what it was?" He was asking for a vague answer.

At that point, that was all Patrick could give. "The worst thing I've ever done." The words were weighed down by shame.

Even so, the other seemed skeptical. "The worst thing you've ever done, or the worst thing you ever _had _to do?"

"...I didn't know there was a difference." Patrick admitted. By then, both of them were sitting on the floor again. Flashlight on.

Carl said nothing, but the look in his eyes defied silence. There was definitely a difference.

"I guess… it was both." Patrick revised. He hadn't wanted to to do it, but he had no choice. "If I'm around, you'll hear about it." He hadn't figured out how many stories were in between his last one and the one he's just relived as a nightmare he could wake up from. He knew it would take time to get through them all. And, like Viri told him, there wasn't time left to waste.

"Where are you gonna go?" The question was almost a joke, and Carl asked a second before he realized the answer.

Even though Patrick didn't have a definitive answer. "It's okay." He knew why Carl had missed the meaning. It was the first time one of his stories about the past had acknowledged their future. And it was a future Carl didn't want to see. "It was always gonna be that way." Walkers or no walkers.

"I could go first." Carl countered.

He knew that wasn't an offer, but Patrick didn't even see it as a possibility. He wondered how Carl could. "No," He said simply. "you won't." It didn't bother him. It was almost like he prefered it that way. "You're younger." Carl's eyes shifted. He wondered why that made a difference for the older boy. Especially since it had made no difference for him. "You're stronger. You're a better fighter." Carl felt like fighting Patrick on this, but forgot about that when he finished his thought. He was smiling then. "Plus, you have the best job in the world."

"What's that?" Everyone worked because they had to, but the job in question was one Carl had wanted.

Patrick didn't tell him then, but he promised he would. "If you can't guess from a few of the stories in between, by the time I get to this one... you'll know for sure." Therein also lied the promise to fight.

* * *

A light chuckle alerted Carol to her new sous-chef's presence. He was hanging around the kitchen area, making sure everyone got their fill. Despite the fact that most fended for themselves when it came to breakfast.

"What?" So early in the day, when there was barely a dent in the work everyone had to do, she usually wouldn't make her curiosity known. Conversation did make the work a little less demanding, but the fact that they all knew to listen intently at each pause for the sounds of grumbling walkers approaching did nothing to take them away from what was now reality.

Carol supposed she only asked because in the week she'd known Patrick, she hadn't heard him laugh once.

Unless with family, it was tough for him to laugh about the way things were now. She knew that was typical for most of the group. The majority of people found it hard to laugh with what the world had come to. Finding humor in it all was relatively easy for Patrick, at times. It just seemed out of place, so he kept the laughs at bay. Especially around adults.

Patrick pointed in his polite way, at the pots and pans hanging overhead. "At every stage of my life," He began, moving his hand back and forth slowly. "one of these has been there." Maybe it was better to write that random fact off as coincidence, but he had a tendency to analyze every little thing whether he wanted to or not. He spoke this thought because it seemed harmless. The next one, not so much. But he'd gotten into the rhythm of talking and didn't want to stop even though he knew full well that he could. "It should've been a clue to what I'd end up doing."

He hadn't said _when the world ended_, but she figured that was what he meant. Even though his relaxed tone told her that he saw the job he held now as the one he'd be doing when he grew up. Since the world had forced him to grow up prematurely.

"But you've done this sort of thing before, right?" Viri had mentioned it to her, when helping him in his job search. Even though he hadn't asked for help.

He nodded. "Not for a salary." He said that in case Zach happened to be listening. Something to cross off the metaphorical list. "I just… like lending a hand anywhere I can." He really did enjoy the work, and maybe that fed into why he couldn't function properly without it. "As it stands now, this is better help than I could offer anywhere else." He said. He wasn't disappointed in himself for admitting, he just wished it wasn't true.

What he felt was a long-winded explanation to Carol was summed up simply in her next statement. "It's easy for you." Her tone was flat, but that didn't faze him.

"It's just something I'm used to." He confirmed.

"It can't be about that anymore." Patrick knew this was a warning. He didn't voice his agreement, but she could see it in his eyes. Better than she could see the Parry blade he now had tucked between his shirt and belt. That wasn't something he was used to. He knew it was only in his head, but the metal felt unbearably cold. That cold feeling was spreading straight through fabric like frostbite.

Carol's voice was now lower, but sharper. "You have to push yourself to do things you never thought you could. That's the only way you survive." The words of wisdom were harsh to his ears. Ears that were as sensitive as Patrick was emotionally. He knew they had to be, or else he wouldn't listen as well.

She knew he was fragile. She had yet to hear much of his experiences, but that fact was obvious to her before he was even close enough for her to see the whites of his eyes.

It was in the way he moved.

"I know you can," She went on, sensing that he needed to hear that just as much. "or else you wouldn't be here now."

Patrick saw that as debateable. "What if that had nothing to do with me?"

"You mean luck?" He counted himself lucky, but that wasn't what he was talking about. Just in case it was, she told him. "You can't always rely on luck. Eventually it runs out."

"I meant… people." He clarified. "Viri, the Bermans, all of you." His expression spoke for how thankful he was that they had helped him, but it also showcased the trouble he had in accepting that help.

"You can't always rely on us either." Carol dismissed. "We'll be here," that was something of a promise, but it also proved how determined the group was to survive. "but we can't look after you all the time." Especially at his age. "You understand?"

More than he could say.

Another story he had yet to tell stayed tucked under his still tongue. He gave a nod in reply, silently promising to keep Carol's advice in mind.

* * *

The adults were working on breaking a horse, or at least reining it in. Its makeshift stable was all ready. Before heading inside again, Patrick made a stop there. He hadn't meant to. His mind was in one place, but his feet were focused on another.

Since there wasn't a day he didn't think about his father, and just about everything was a reminder.

He didn't remember seeing the camera roll that day, but he'd had the home movie for proof.

"_Hey, Patrick, where are we going today?"_

"_The farm." He replied in a whisper, with his eyes aimed at the hardwood._

_His father let out a laugh. "Why're you tellin' the floor, too? Is the floor invited? Nobody told me that."_

_Patrick's whisper turned into a groan. "Dad." He liked being teased about as much as he liked being filmed._

"_Is it me that's intimidating, or this hunky metal box that I'm carting around?" That question sparked the faintest of smiles, and convinced Patrick to look up. He didn't say so, but the answer was 'neither'. He wasn't comfortable the idea of strangers seeing these tapes. Not to mention he wasn't comfortable with the idea of fun. "It's your day off, I'm not gonna ask any tough questions."_

"_Okay." He didn't like the attention, but he felt his father did. And as young as he was, he didn't want to deprive him of that._

"_What are you most excited to see at the farm today, Patrick?"_

_The answer took no hesitation. "Stablehands." The boy said, smiling brighter._

"_Stablehands?" His father repeated, stammering a bit. "I didn't think that was a choice."_

_Brown eyes disappeared in a blink behind black frames. When they opened again, Patrick said: "People are animals, too, Dad. They're mammals. Like horses and stuff."_

"_Okay, I see your point,." The man spoke casually, but his eyes reflected the fact that his son never ceased to amaze. "but what's so exciting about stablehands?"_

_Patrick shrugged. "I've never met one."_

"_Ah. I guess that's the exciting part."_

The camera had stopped rolling soon after. The memory of the rest of that day was gone, but inspiration had struck all the same. It wasn't much of one, but Patrick knew what story to tell next.

* * *

"He must've snuck past you." Zach told Patrick when asked about Carl's whereabouts. "He was just here, but he went to check the snares."

"By himself?" Patrick's concern outweighed the cross feeling that came with knowing someone younger than him had been tasked with checking the snares he made. Like he couldn't be trusted with the job.

"He can handle it." Zach assured, moving his glance to Judith, who was sitting in Beth's lap. "Your brother's a tough guy, right?" Contrary to what any of the others expected, the baby made no sound in answer. Instead, she just looked up at Zach. He took that as confirmation enough.

"I don't doubt it," Patrick replied. The scary part of the job Carl took on wasn't the threat beyond the fences, but the fact he was sent out there to face it alone. With a camp full of people, someone was bound to be free to help. The was a high likelihood that Carl hadn't asked for help. Sometimes he kept his plans all to himself. "but they're my snares. Four of them, anyway."

Beth sent Patrick a knowing look. This wasn't about the metal contraptions. It was about the fastest friend he'd made at the prison. She was about to tell him that he could go back out there. That Carl would understand having someone to look out for him didn't mean he wasn't capable of fending for himself.

Patrick didn't wait for permission. He turned and left without another word, keeping a steady pace but saving his energy for walkers looking to compromise the group's catch.

As he got closer to the world beyond the fence, he kept his eye on Carl. No doubt the walkers would see him as more of a meal than whatever poor creatures had been ensnared.

For feeding was all that they knew.

The area was clear apart from a few stragglers slowly advancing on what only a stranger would call a target. Carl knew what he was doing, but one thing was obvious. He couldn't watch his back and his front at the same time.

Back when he had his gun, this job would've been much easier. Now he really had to pace himself. After just a few kills, Patrick could see what the younger boy's strategy was. Whatever way he could, he brought them down to his level. Or lower. That way he could take them out without exerting too much energy. Sometimes it was just easier to push them over. Or get in close so he could reach up and aim right for the center of the forehead.

Carl wouldn't let them past a certain point, because the snares were still full. And some of the trapped animals were still kicking. Though he figured the walkers were only after him, anyway.

Patrick wonder what made humans extra appetizing to these things. He supposed that, since their minds had rotted before the rest of them, the reason didn't have to make sense. He shut off his thoughts. He never let them carry him away for very long anymore.

He brought his hand behind his back, so that the Parry blade was in his reach. Even as his fingers wrapped around the handle, the knife still didn't feel like his to take.

But he'd left himself with no other option on purpose.

Only a handful of walkers remained that Carl had yet to take down. He knew he had to act fast before they approached from all sides. He didn't want to drown himself in a sea of outstretched, rotting arms and chomping, decaying teeth.

He stabbed the one directly in front of him. Blood barely trickled down the downed walker's face before Carl heard that same familiar _squish _sound behind him. Another dead thing fell, doubling over as it came down.

Patrick was standing behind it, but his head had already turned to face another walker. Carl was stunned still for the smallest fraction of a second, watching Patrick manage another kill. It was so quick, he'd thought he'd missed. That was how Carl caught onto the fact that his friend was wielding a weapon he hadn't had much experience with.

Patrick stepped toward his friend, and now the creatures had circled around them both. It would feel like a trap, if it had been set by a smarter species. This was a trap the boys willingly walked into. This was their unplanned strategy. The two of them switched spots, then fell into formation. They stood back-to-back, as if they had tagged-teamed twenty times before.

Their eyes were locked on their targets. Their knives were at the ready, as they waited for the walkers to get in closer. Two were taken down at once. The twice-dead bodies landed in a heap near the others. Three were left. Without even exchanging a look, the boys went after one walker on either side of the one in the middle.

Patrick grabbed a withering wrist. He pulled it and twisted, easily dislodging it from its socket. The walker's teeth aimed down in the direction of the rough touch. With one quick swipe up, the monster was on the ground. Joining the others in their temporary graveyard.

Carl kicked at extra-bony ankles. When the walker fell, he drove the knife into its skull.

The last walker standing out of this little herd was huge on all accounts. Getting it out of the way would take a lot.

Patrick turned and ran, but he didn't have far to go. Carl inched backward, wanting to keep an eye on the thing he knew he couldn't handle alone. He trusted that Patrick wouldn't leave him to do that. He turned just slightly when he heard the snares being reset, and saw Patrick chucking each catch over the fence.

"It'll ruin 'em." Carl said as his eyes split their focus and his feet avoided the downed walkers.

"Only if it reaches this point." Patrick reasoned, hoping the walker would trip over the fallen members of its herd. Banking on that, Carl joined him back at the snares.

The walker's stagger turned into a stumble, but it didn't get any closer to the ground for more than a few seconds. There wasn't enough time for either of the boys to step in and stop it. So, they silently agreed that they would let it keep coming. They backed up even more, and let the snares do most of the work. The metal teeth snapped shut on one foot and sent the thing forward, face planting into the ground. It struggled to stand, tripping another trap.

With the creature pinned, it was an easy target. Patrick gave Carl the go ahead, but stayed close in line in case the walker figure out a way to turn its head and start snapping at ankles. When it did just that, Patrick aimed a fast foot at its head. The move was effective, but it wasn't direct enough.

This would take another stab. Carl didn't need backup for that, but it was reassuring to know he had someone else to turn to next time he was in need of help.

* * *

"I knew you had it. I just didn't wanna get rusty. Patrick told Carl on their walk back to the prison, catches in hand.

They helped each other close the gate, and then Carl asked: "You've done that before?" He wasn't sure why he phrased it like a question. After what he'd just seen, it was evident that Patrick had killed other walkers.

"Not like that." This was said after something of a huff.

"What do you mean?"

The older boy didn't mind explaining, because he always wanted people to know what he was talking about. He just didn't have much of an explanation to give. Yet. He held up the Parry blade, which he'd wiped (mostly) clean in the grass beyond the fence. "Not my weapon of choice."

Carl gave an understanding nod in reply. "So, what did you wanna tell me?" He couldn't imagine Patrick had gone out there simply because he sensed his friend needed his help.

The look Patrick gave him then was the expressional equivalent of a playful nudge. "That I can check my own damn snares." He was trying to show that he wasn't offended by the assumption that he was inexperienced at killing walkers. His image made that something to be expected, and his actions had to counter that. On very rare occasions, his words countered that image, too. Something as mild as 'damn' wouldn't be half as effective coming from someone else.

In this case, the only effect was a confused look from Carl. "Was that supposed to be a joke?"

"Supposed to be." Patrick repeated lamely. Oddly enough, that sparked the closest thing to a laugh he'd heard from Carl throughout his entire first week at the prison. "Seeing this place be shaped into a farm, reminded me of this one petty regret I have. If I'm even allowed that anymore." Patrick admitted.

Maybe there wasn't room for regret the way the world was now. If Carl thought so, that didn't show in his face. That stunned expression from before flickered in his eyes again. "What'd you do?"

"It's what I didn't do." Patrick countered, explaining: "My entire third grade class had the chance to milk a cow, and I'm the only one who passed it up."

With the stories Patrick had told before, this was easily the most trivial thing that he'd talked about. "Why does it still matter?"

He shrugged. "That's what I'm trying to figure out. Maybe it's because it wasn't the first time." He finished that sentence in his head.

Carl said the words out loud. "And there won't be a next time."

"That's it." Patrick realized. "The harmless things terrify me," He cocked his head in the direction of the fence before adding: "and that's just… instinct."

Killing walkers had become second nature, even for someone who forced himself to be so sheltered.

Carl could tell the older boy was wracking his brain trying to make sense of the way it was wired. He had judgement to pass, but not about his friend. "Cows aren't harmless. That's why farmers warn you not to stand behind 'em."

As a laugh left Patrick's lips, his cheeks puffed up and his head tilted back a bit. The younger boy was right about that. "Insignificant as it was to everyone else, I guess I saw it as another chance to rebel. Or not even that." Rebel was the wrong word. "I just… pushed life away. My dad tried everything to get me to stop that. It's what we fought about most of the time." He didn't notice, but saying that struck a nerve. His eyes narrowed. "What kind of kid only cares about survival?"

Patrick meant that as self-criticism, not a question. Carl answered anyway. "Kids here." That sort of behavior was expected in these circumstances.

The response made Patrick stop short. That was exactly what he tried to avoid when built that toy car and left it for Carl to find. "That can't be all we are."

Carl shook his head. He wasn't going back on his unspoken promise. "But I think all we are gets… pushed aside sometimes." They'd made the choice to survive, but this world didn't always let them live. The boys knew the difference. They knew they deserved to have both, for as long as they could.

"I guess we'll have to keep ourselves and each other in check." Patrick said, picking up the pace again.

It was easy to imagine Patrick as a caregiver, since he was helping keep everyone fed. What Carl couldn't picture was Patrick calling him out on things. He just seemed too polite for that.

Even so, the younger boy nodded in agreement. Silence fell for a few seconds, and both boys noticed it was a lot less awkward than the last time that happened. Then Carl asked something that had been weighing on his mind because it lifted a weight from his shoulders. "You fought with your dad?"

Frustration flared up in Patrick's eyes as he realized he misspoke. "We argued." He explained "It was never-"

Carl cut him off, sensing he was stressing himself out again. "I didn't think that." He said as they stepped inside. He was wondering why Patrick worried he thought 'fight' meant anything physical. Patrick wondered if the younger boy even believed the newcomer could even hold his own in a physical fight. Although-as Carl saw it-he'd just proven that he could.

"It's not unheard of, ya know." The older boy said. This was his way of offering reassurance.

Carl wasn't the only one who fought with his father.

With a swallowed sigh and another nod, Carl voiced a hope. "Will you tell me some of those stories?"

Patrick hadn't anticipated that turn their conversation took. Apparently, his previous statement wasn't reassurance enough. "Sure," He said softly, before thinking of a way to end their conversation on a lighter note. "but on one condition." The look Carl sent him then suggested he had to hear the condition before he agreed to anything. "_You_ have to tell me more about your monumental third grade year."

"Monumental?" For an echo, it was empty of all that enthusiasm.

"Everything happened to you." That was the reasoning. The revision was: "Well, a good chunk of it. Practically the only thing I can remember from that age is… the cow."

After a playful scoff, Carl said: "Okay."

* * *

The bodies by the fence had been cleared away for burning. Half of Patrick's snares were saturated with walker blood, and the metal was mangled.

He added 'replacement snares' to his list of things to do, and looked up to find two more friends hovering over him in his cell.

Zach was there to wager more guesses as to what Patrick's pre-apocalypse occupations were. "Stablehand." He rattled off, proving that he'd been keeping an eye on him.

Patrick shook his head, and over the sound of Zach sighing, he elaborated: "That work was a chore, not a job." For Carl, that mean Patrick's past experience with farms didn't stop at visits where he passed on the opportunity to milk cows.

Beth smiled as she found herself a corner to sit and write in. Her makeshift bookmark found its way to the floor again. Carl picked it up and did something Patrick knew he personally wouldn't have the guts to.

He unfolded it. Beth glanced up, and the look in her eyes said she didn't mind.

After all, the page was Carl's to begin with...

**Thanks for reading, PLEASE REVIEW! I feel like Carl had more dialogue in this chapter than he's had since season two, but maybe I'm just paranoid. Let me know of any stories you wanna hear or questions/theories/corrections you have for me. I'll update ASAP! =]**


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